July 19th, 1991.

all little boys need father figures

not to be normal, or not to be sane. You wouldn’t turn on a lightswitch without seeing where all the conduits placed. You grow up with a fist full of hurt. A surge, like a missile, without hearing a ‘miss you’. But one thing is certain, nothing makes you question your integrity more knowing that your very existence is burden. You’re a burden to breathe. I was just a curious boy. Curious George. Curious Cristian. Tried to talk to friends, but the look on their faces. It hurts just to listen. A burden. “How about a counselor?”. Yeah, I know the in-and-outs. I’m a soldier. Here take my money, let me cry in your shoulder. How do you plant your feet in the mud? And how do you turn your feelings to comfort? And how do you know what you’re feeling is real and isn’t some misguided daydream, cause you’re weak, and well – younger. I’ve broken off my hearts pieces asunder. endured the most embarrassing trial and error in the world to learn how to speak to a lover. It sucks. Questions I wanted to ask. Questions that needed answers. How do you express greediness more than leaving a son? Upset cause I proceeded to ask ’em. On the cusp of 24 without never really knowing how it is to have one. Just shells of people that didn’t want to take up the task. Another week is another meek undercover. Another daydream took a plunge. Now all i wanna do is scream. I want to go into the streets and scream ’til I don’t feel any nothing. ‘Til I summon beams full of thunder, till I shutter streets full of anger. ’til my fucking teeth shatter and bust into a dozen pieces of rancor. ‘Til you see a fucking beast take refuge on the streets with an anchor, and he won’t leave til sun-up and sunsets over under. ‘Til you fucking learn my motherfucking pain isn’t something to play with, motherfucker. There’s a bloodbath of ink on this pale sheet. I’m on a smooth pace of spilling, a new space and ceiling. Its a tragedy that I had to reduce my father figure into newspaper clippings. How my favorite ballplayer scored 30 points. There’s a new wave of emptiness intended for millenials
and I write most of everything in metaphors. Soft explanations. so the interpretation gets lost in translation, cause as long as I know what I meant. Your misconception is void, cause I felt those words when I wrote them. 100 years from now when I’m gone, children in classrooms will be dissecting my verses. With no intention or purpose. I scribbled them into quotes. A message deployed. Through rejection. Through rage. Through an affectionate ploy. An inception became a reflection of my own inevitable pain. Cause remember, for everything set in stone, there’s a knife where the edges are frayed. Irreverent. Sane. I clutch an invisible pendant made out of being ashamed. Every individual second is captured in a thousand frames. And those frames are just lost, they never see light. They’re just gray. There’s a judge that looks exactly like me, handing out a sentence in vain. Bail is set at impossible, and the bailiff is me too. At my funeral, I want Beethovens 5th set as the prelude. Every physical sentence I mash out is obsession. I’ve invented the abstract. & what’s next is a flash. I sit alone at the dinner table, 3 hours past supper. Spinning my index finger in the red wine, staring into the glass, as if it’s gonna stare back up. Every masterpiece I created is crap. And my own perfection is lackluster. I don’t know. I’ve been so hard on myself, that the quality is starting to lack. Quantity takes its place to tackle an impossible task. Ive’ tacked on a badge of honor; madness bottled up, swallowed up by a flask of somber.

I already know what you’re going to say before you say it. it’s non euphoric. and even if I were to become complacent, it would be out of boredom. What a soreness to wake up out of touch with the world. Like yeah, I see your pain, and I raise you my void. I’ve coughed blood into buckets. I’ve sung songs that have trumpets. It’s better to have love lost, than to, fuck it. Making people laugh is a drug and I love it. And then I run out of punchlines, and realize my life was it. Feeling implicit. Two decades confined to fetal position.

I didn’t want to believe it

Im sitting alone at the cosmic stump.
Sipping my soul & I’m Vodka drunk
Thinking of goals. I’ve not have done
Fission control. visit me in my head
Cataclysmic logarithms. -picture dreams that are dead
Bickering silence, word by word I fell in your haiku
only heard what you wanted when I tell I love you
Nervous, respond. I fell in the lust pool
mouth of sin, out of breath
a spell was cast on my lungs too
she promised me passion, she promised me endless
a synonym for forever. All I got was a toxic expansion
mantras to mansion. so deceptive it hurt
quoted my tantrums. like an excerpt from a book
don’t mention the looks. I wonder how you mention me now?
sat on the couch, watching Netflix. Forget heaven and clouds
came from the kitchen with spoon full of sauce that you fed in my mouth.
Cilantro, “does the chicken francaise taste good, my love”
Now I found spooning so distasteful. It sucks
Double entendre tornado. A marksman from the start
Haloed your heart, rainbow. And darts at the bar
volcano and smog, now I counted a hundred horseshoes
Barely put in words, how much I adore you
So scared and it hurts, I’ve come to assortments
From arid. It’s gravid, it varied of course
Marriage, like cherries. Best pick to engorge
Eviction of souls. dependent on the glare you
reflected
You sold me religion, with Laissez-Faire in effect
I flare up, I gave up on describing this feeling
Inscribed when I speak, shine on the shrine I requested
dried my lips on your teeth. A psychic connection
read the Braille on my tongue without trying to french kiss
Assignment: Accepted. Binary in sign language
With tension so hectic you’d barely bury the knife hatchet
Fury. Attachment. To the universe that emblazoned
the jury and gavel. as well as the executioner faceless
Fell into Jupiters orbit, and you didn’t notice
Consumed in your work. My mutation was forced
I knew it of course, I ballooned and transmogrified
with evolutionary pose, soon to be broken, I
Cocooned. I was born. alas. a new metamorphis. Rise
Using the moons pull as a force. So isotopic
The butterfly. Psychotropic. New skull and a heart

Freshly dressed tourniquet

Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow, it’s weird. Some sort of eery control. It’s sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. Clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell, it; I hear. And movements that veer into me, is getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. it’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens, I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at ‘em. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny, because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlocks the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick, if home is where the heart is, i don’t even know if my home fucking exists. Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and, I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different version. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think ‘is that why its called beats per minute?????’. Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation, i’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective, and deceptive. It’s no arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. don’t hurt me, I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, and ocean or sea, of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executioned me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for action, that me, myself and I don’t acknowledge in real. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. Can barely afford to pay attention to myself, how would I know I was there for you.