One More Poem

Words. Word ?

Death. A Perpetual Mystery

Death is the first step to happiness. 
The beginning of your dreams. 
So bear all those hardships, 
as painful as it may seem, 
as we start living
we start dying,
so you won’t have to wait long. 

At least that’s one theory, 
death could just be the end.
All your accomplishments
can’t follow you to the grave.
Life’s hard and then you die, 
so live life like it’ll end 
one day. 

But who really knows ? Your life, do what you like.


From the first hi, 
you set the bar high, 
you’ll never be the person I met.

It’s quite scary,
how temporarily,
you were the standard you set.

I’m facing facts,
that it was all an act, 
or at the very least, you hit your head, the old you’s gone and here instead is someone whose insides are dead, you were fun before, or did you forget ?

Do you understand my frustration ?
You set these expectations,
that will never again be met.

Had to stop writing daily crap because I started feeling really bad whenever I missed a day. Like commitment issues, cheating on someone bad. (Hypothetically)

Port Royal

My shattered past,
like the broken glass
grass fields of
my youth,
cuts deep,
leaves slits
for the salty air
to seep in.
It carries memories,
about ignorant bliss;
appraising every stone,
with naked soles.
Us little things,
wire frames of bones,
running as a herd,
because we were young,
so we were not to be heard,
nor seen.
So we’d sneak
and wade in troubled waters
right off the shore,
and we’d stay till night,
never wanting more
from life.

My shattered past,
like the broken glass
grass fields of
my youth,
cuts deep,
leaves slits
for the salty air
to seep in.
It carries memories,
about floors drowned
in piss,
about the sea breeze,
that once gently teased,
but now coerces out
an aggressive sneeze.
The waters
in which I once doved,
now showed,
not my reflection,
but one of the uglies of men.
And finally my friends,
the ones “till the end,”
the ones that have not met their end,
life on the other end,
means this is the end.


I hear they say,
in the hallways,
that my eyes stray,
and that I betray

I know they think,
that I do
the untrue,
and lie
to you.

Though you should know,
I walk through
faceless crowds
that all speak the same sound,
but your voice, loud
above the rest.

Don’t Call It An Apology


Stay under the shade,
under trees,
out of the rays.
Keep my mouth shut,
because I have nothing
good to say.
Say the words,
and I’ll walk away,
don’t hold back,
I’ll take whatever comes my way.

This isn’t a apology,
by the way,
say it is
and I’ll walk away,
just thought these be good words
to say,
I’ll keep my head cool
by staying out of the rays,
and maybe enjoy life,
underneath the shade.

(Source: )


A beautiful mess
of ugly bodies.
A few rounds
of king of the hill,
I usually win,
but sometimes
I surrender.

If we don’t make love,
then it doesn’t exist,
so maybe this is ‘in love.’
You’re not my heart,
you’re a replacement,
a pacemaker,
you just set a tempo.

I’d wait for your response,
but you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.

Our bodies pulse, tense and push.
An unconventional race,
we always tie, we always win.

The room’s always a mess afterwards,
our pants cover the floor,
our pants fill the air.

A lot better than the first time,
which was the worst time,
but these last few times,
have been great times.

I always like the view,
from where I stand,
I can see everything,
from the mountains,
to the valleys.
So as we lay, quietly breathing,
wondering what to do.
May I casually suggest, a round 2.

Tell Me About Your Day

Having a good day ?
Having a great day ?
If it’s not either,
respectfully stay away.
Not that you don’t matter,
but I got enough on my platter,
to worry about your day.

Having a good day ?
Having a great day ?
It’s multiple choice,
all other answers are noise,
I’m not telling you to get lost see,
and I don’t mean to be bossy,
I just can’t handle your shit right now.

So you’re having a bad day ?
maybe even your worst day ?
Nothing’s going your way,
eveyday’s a Monday.
But the hard truth is ,
we’re in the business of life,
and sometimes it sucks,
and misery is rife,
but if you look hard enough,
bad days are just good ones in disguise.

Root. Rock. Reggae.

Root rock reggae,
keep it rock steady.
Last line of defense,
against northern influence.
di day di dreds
say culture deading,
till den,
take us far,
wid di acoustic guitar,
use it fi kindle fire,
and tek we higher.

Deforestation of di culture,
got di yute dem
a move wid no roots.
heritage a slip beneath dem boots,
dem a fall an na’ve no chute,
world where don man
and babylon
a work together, in cahoots.

So you di rock,
and you di root,
you are reggae,


If the concept of natural talent rings true,
I guess that means that there are truly people born,
And without natural talent then some people are born,
and then those people who are “special” because they’re not ordinary or special.

I hope you can look someone like that in the face,
and tell them to know their place,
that no matter how hard they try,
they’ll never be as good as that guy,
because matter how similar you both seem,
all that matters is your genes.

Tell them life is no race, it’s not fair,
you’re either born in first place,
or you’re not.
So grow up from those antiquated Disney Channel lessons.
Tell them their effort won’t amount to anything,
that their desire won’t change anything.
Through no fault of their own,
they’ve lost before it’s begun.

Say that to me.

A Love Poem

and know I’m not listening,
but say words
so I can breathe you in.
Make sounds,
so I can keep beating.
Mention me,
so I stay living.

Blue skies and sunshine,
in your eyes and your smile,
give me butterflies
and make me weak.
I hope you don’t see,
my trembling knees,
when I approach

I feel
deeper than an ocean,
but I’m silent,
just like an ocean,
except the commotion,
my internal devotion,
that’s breaking ribs
for you.

So give me time,
I need time,
something I’ve never had.
If I don’t show,
what you didn’t know,
I’m sure I’d go mad.
So before you go;
read this.


I heard scratchings in the attic,
unused space between the roof and the ceiling;
I had to get rid of them,
furry monsters,
their existence an evil plague.
I bought one of those “humane” traps,
not the ones that cut the beasts in half,
but the really sticky ones,
where you put the bait in some glue,
you kill them with what they love the most.
They get stuck, sometimes for days,
forced to sit and watch the world move on.
They sit still, as ants and other insect
eat them alive.
At this point they can’t even scream,
starvation robs their voices.
The “humane” trap indeed.

I no longer have rats,
but every now and then,
with the lights off, and the time still,
I hear scratching in my attic.

Too Much Thinking

For the first time ever I feel like I’m better at my writing;
I feel like I can call myself a poet without flinching;
I feel like I can say “I make art,” without thinking I sound pretentious.
On second thought I still sound pretty fucking pretentious when I say that.
But I digress, the point is I feel good about my writing and I’m wondering if this is good ?
Suppose the only thing that drove me to improve was that I thought I was horrible;
Scratch that I knew I was horrible.
Suppose the best thing for my work was my cynical mind ?

Then what happens now ?
Do I stop improving, do I stagnate ?
Do I become like still water - foul and horrid ?
Something that once brought life now scares away all life.
Will that be me, will my confidence alienate me from further progress ?
Am I even confident that I have confidence ?
Because if not that then is this even a problem ?

Seriously. Fuck Thinking.


Can you tell me what’s more perfect than being alone, outside in the still of night ?
When the world sleeps and you’re really the one in a million the world says you are.
When you think outloud, the world agrees with you, it echoes your thoughts.
I mean in the morning, you’re just a star among star amidst an inky black sky.
But in the night, when it’s just you, you’re the sun, you’re not sharing the spotlight, you are it.
Time slows and the earth herself reveals to you her secrets, the things we take for granted.
The air tastes better, the crunch of leaves beneath your sole, the cool air that gently nips at your skin.
And it’s more than just nature, the streetlight that hums as you past by, or the tall, scraping buildings that toil in the sun all day, enjoying their break in the shade.
Not to mention what you discover about you, it’s so quiet you can hear your heart beat, feel your lungs move.
It’s too dark to see what’s ahead, and too dark to look back.
Only what’s immediately around you is present, you can only live for now, no dwelling on what you forgot, what you regret, and no stressing over what’s to come, what you can’t anticipate.
So I ask, already knowing the answer, can you tell me a time more perfect outside, in the still of night.


When I’m old, and my hair fades to grey,
When I’m old, and my hair fades away,
When I’m old, and my skin wrinkles like old pages,
When I’m old, and my eyes falter and fail,
I’ll run my hands over my scars, the Braille of my childhood,
When I’m old, I’ll hold my memories, till the end takes me away.