Well of waste

I want to drown myself in coffee.. I want to melt into every part of you.

beauty lies within the eyes, so what you expell is what you put out, & in turn recieve.. 

& in those times you bleed, & feel ugly, know it's all a part of being set free.


crippled, I stand.

shaking, my hand.

waving, goodbye... I let out a sigh.

why bother to ask? alone at last.. comfort in this clasp..

the suffocation of myself. 


breathe, be, clear my eyes with water, in attempt to better see. 

I can't bare anymore to feel the black shroud of this clouded memory..

my heart cries out for clarity..

envisioning the future, I climb..

but we all tend to fall a little short in the grasp of time.. 


how I wish to call you darling.. & stroke your hair..

caressing the sides of your face, & playing with the jewelry in your ears..

i'm sorry I couldn't of done better.. for my family has the tendency to fight & fetter.. 


another sunny day, wasted away.. I kind of wish I could lie down in my grave, & rest eternally..

maybe so many of us are unhappy because we never stop searching, we never let our heart or mind get a rest..

we always push ourselves further, & wonder why it seems like a test.. 

why haven't my eyes bled out yet...? why am I still here..?

this fear is parasitic.. consuming your insides.. till it's all that's left there... 


if I were to die, i'd hate to know he got the satisfaction of my silence...

the suffering I endured, creating massive hurricanes of inner violence.. 

i'll try now, to bring up a well of pity... just for you.. maybe i'll even throw in a penny, or dime..

but not a quarter, cause you were never worth my time.....


if you continue.... I hope you fall on your face someday, & land on my grave...

when you do, i'll be sure to pull you straight through, down under, to burn in hells fire..

this is one of my many darkest desires..

Author's Notes/Comments: 


My father’s trumpet

My father’s trumpetIn a black box under my parent´s bed is hidden a shiny Golden trumpet,  since I have memory I remember that black box in the same place, there it stays almost all days of the week, every day I see it, is in the same place as always, under my parents bed.

After a hard week of work he goes to his room to play it. He practices almost every weekend, he can stay there for many hours, just playing songs and practicing. He enjoys so much the music, but his trumpet is his most valuable thing, he takes care of it as if it was a baby, he cleans it every time he uses it, and then the trumped goes to the same place, under my parent’s bed. It has to pass one week just for playing the trumpet again. When my father was younger he was a good trumpeter, it was more than a hobby, he tried in many fields and succeeded in some occasions but not at the level he wanted to, so he decided to not continue with that. But now he is really happy with his trumpet, in every chance he has to play he does, every occasion that is appropriate he uses it to play the trumpet. Even if it’s sunny, rainy, cloudy, it doesn’t matter he plays it when he can.  A lot of years have passed since that trumped arrived at my house, it is older than the first daughter than came to the family, many histories that it could tell, but it doesn’t matter how old it is, it has the same sound as when it was new. A lot of travels and histories it has passed thru, now it is in the same place as when I was born, under my parent’s bed. It can be there for many more years and my father will have it even if it doesn’t work anymore. My father loves that trumpet and even if he is not professional but playing it makes him very happy. 

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My sister's golden necklace

My sister’s golden necklace.


My sister has a passion for collecting all kind of stuff. Her room is full with all kind of things and strange objects; she has art, vintage furniture and jewelry, photographs, bookcases full of interesting books and magazines, a closet full of the latest fashion trends in clothes, footwear and much more. Sometimes when I go into her room I feel I’m in another place.


I think that all objects in her room are important for her but there’s a special thing inside that “museum”: a replacement of an old and cheap golden necklace with a personalized name pendant. Anyone who doesn’t know the history of this necklace can consider it funny because certainly, in that room there are objects of much greater value. The necklace with the pendant was a purchase on one of her trips to Europe when she was a teenager. Since she bought it, no matter which was the occasion she always wore it. Parties, trips, weddings, the necklace was always there with her. I can’t even remember her without that necklace; she wore it even when she was sleeping.

Everybody asked her where she got it (because although it was cheap it looked great on her long and slender neck) and she told them the story which was actually very simple an unimportant, I mean, she just bought it in a flea market in Paris.


One day the necklace just disappeared from his neck and she was very sad and desperate because she couldn’t know where it was and neither understand how she didn’t realize when it drop off his neck, so I decided to go and buy her a new one but this time it will be an expensive one to make sure it would last forever. Obviously it wasn’t the same for her and I couldn’t understand why if it was a better version of his old golden necklace, until I realized that it wasn’t the material, the brand or the price of it, it was just that that old cheap chain had so much meaning attached to her. That necklace represented friendship, independence, strength and who she was. It wasn’t about the old chain with the pendant; it was about her losing herself.


She doesn’t use the new one everyday, perhaps she still remembers that old necklace’ or maybe she is afraid of losing it again; howsoever she would wear it once in a while to live new experiences and make new memories.





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The Silk Shirts

There is no day my grandfather, Candelario, doesn’t wear his silk shirts. He has every design of this type of shirts. Ever since I remember he has always worn these silk shirts. I’m not sure when he started wearing this shirts, perhaps it was from his years as a president of Abasolo, Tamaulipas in which he had to dress nicely, or perhaps ever since he got his major as a doctor, but every time I think of my grandpa I remember his silk shirts.

His nicknames, given by his grandkids, moved from Calendario to Yiyo to Kiko, the family started to grow, from my mother to me (the oldest grandchild), to my cousin Regina (the youngest in the house, only 3 years old); a lot of happiness ran trough the family, along with tears of tragedy and sadness, but he never changed his look.

Every 7 of July (his birthday), father’s day or Christmas, or any celebration, it has become a family tradition to give him as a present silk shirt or his pants or some socks and even shoes to keep his style. The softness of the shirt makes it really nice to hug him or receiving his hugs, it is one of my favorite things to do.

I think that these shirts talk a lot about his personality. He is a responsible and focused person. He always directs to people in a respectful way, even tough he has a strong personality, he is hard on the outside but in the inside there is a completely different person.

I used to call him grumpy because he was very bossy when I was growing; I actually got to fear him as I grew. Now, this man is one of my best friends. In spite of being this good person, he has no patience at all and often tells us stories about how he scares little kids when they go to him at his consulting room. He likes joking a lot; even tough kids don’t enjoy it.

With his very well defined sense of style, his changing sense of humor, I adore this man. It is a blessing to have him. He had 2 heart attacks 14 years ago and the doctors said he would only be with us for 10 years. He has focused in living for the moment and enjoying life as much as he can. That is why I believe he always wants to be presentable and looking good for others to remember him exactly as he is. 


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Unending Love




I love you more than ever,

You give me an unending fever.

I am so eager to know,

If you love me so...


I know you do, both too

For I love you more.

You give me not only pleasure,

You are my only treasure.


Love is all I knew,

When I had only few.

No friends, no family around;

But you kept me on the ground.


You were always there for me,

Being my sweet pea, you see?

Our love cannot be broken,

That is a promise, a token!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A love-poem written for Nyarlathotep.

Green Given Giving

A vagrant bird of kiwi greens

made perch along the nesting streams.

Little more than few chirps were heard

resonating from his grotto

in all his days of solitude.


When he lunged to embrace the gust,

he took to glide and found himself

suddenly amidst a bold din:

this fluttering rainbow of kin,

set about in fevered retreat

from the angry threats of the cold.


As they came to land, so did he,

and quick he was then with his song,

no matter the luster it lacked.

No glamor was given, nor feigned,

and it came his turn to show tail

as he flailed away, resolute.

But not far, as he wasn't through,


and time could only abide him.

He returned to their cloyed clergy

with feathers fanning and mottled;

baby-talons tapping, clawing,

and making rhythms from his rave.

Little notice granted, but some,

and that was finally enough

to warrant the giving of gifts.


Some noticed the green bird's absence

for the few moments that it was,

but all caught sight of his return

with a leaf-ridden branch out-held.

On its frail and shrinking fingers,

there were berry clusters of green -

sharing the color of their tow.

At this, the lot could bend and eat,

for it was the giving of friends.


Now this patterned flock is dotted

by scattered flecks, like tiny leaves,

of a specific shade of green.

Where his dances and song had failed,

one might even say greed prevailed,

for he found it wise to provoke

the needs of many, all at once.

In the chaos he had found love,

proudly reared their eggs in sermon,

and died among the kin he'd earned.

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That's Why I Pray

This world’s going to Hell
Cause parents won’t teach their children
The difference between right and wrong

When those towers fell
I didn’t see one person
Whose heart wasn’t movin’

How quickly we forget
The past and how it
Kicks us in the back today

This generation’s in a fit
Like a child who don’t get his way
Spoiled brats who’s gotten everything handed to them

Always looking, never full
People ain’t got no aspirations
Why be more if you’re just an animal

Work just ain’t for us
And we don’t want to know
How much some people want it
To give their families a home

This world’s gone crazy
They think You’re gone
Little do they know
That they’re dead wrong, God
They’re dead wrong
They do what they will
And hurt those who go or stay
So until this mess is cleaned in Your good time
That’s why I pray

Gunfights, city lights, murder on the streets
Bombs exploding, blood is flowing under another human’s feet
School’s teaching lies, ‘cause the people tell them to
Our babies losing lives to play the whims of the few

America the giant, now only giant sideways
The glory past, now coming fast, is the time to pay
Declarations of freedom to tax the people under us
Send our soldiers to a war, then bring them back, just because

This world’s gone crazy
They think You’re gone
Little do they know
That they’re dead wrong, God
They’re dead wrong
They do what they will
And hurt those who go or stay
So until this mess is cleaned in Your good time
That’s why I pray

That’s why I pray

So if you’re a God-fearing
America loving
Child rearing
Government shoving
Good ole’ boy
Or city guy
Join me and I’ll tell you why

This world’s gone crazy
They think You’re gone
Little do they know
That they’re dead wrong, God
They’re dead wrong
They do what they will
And hurt those who go or stay
So until this mess is cleaned in Your good time
That’s why I pray
That’s why I pray

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Buttered Toast for Two


The mist is lighter now,
but still there is a heavy
heaviness feeling filling me inside,
like a lump in the throat or peanut butter
sandwich, I see;
Past, life, lives and coffeehouse musicians,
coffeehouse artists,
past and future and present,
I see what I want, what I have,
maybe what I will
I see you there, and I see my Father, my
Mother, her mother, and our friend-father
My Grandmother's
I see tea steaming alive in her living fuzzy
kitchen; books,
tables, and family love,
I want that English tea
and I want coffeehouse tea,
I want to sit with him and talk
and to remember Lionel's napkin

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He will be missed (in memory of Tiny)

He was the middle one, in our gang of three
There was Ronnie, Lawrence and third was me.
From early on, trouble we were
just ask Sis, we tried burning her.
I was to young to remember that time
Mom tells it well, and how she made us three whine.
I do remember some times we had
like the brothers three; at the lake with dad.
I hope dad greets you, when you arrive
then you'll both have love by your side.
Lawrence will be missed by more then me
He was loved by more, then just family!
I remember too when I got shot
The gun in his hands, believe it or not.
he dropped the gun, and off he ran
Because I'd kick his ass, and you know I can.
Yes dear brother, we had some times
So in your honor, I write these rhymes.
I will miss you, truly I will
Tho sometimes we fought, I loved you still!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

dedicated in honor of my brother who passed away at 9:42 am on 01/01/2013
Goodbye Tiny...

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