Those We Leave Behind

Please don’t look this way. The extraneous toll of these minutes is unbearable. Somewhere along the road we lost the map, which made us lose our way. You called for me in the dark, but  I stayed mute. The whole world judges, but who are they? It’s ok to be lost, as long as you are aware of it.

I was lost once on a beach with no sand. I walked in the shallows and was pulled in by the tide. I struggled against the waves for hours until I ran out of strength and let myself go. The churning tide pushed me and pulled. Eventually my lifeless corpse was thrown agains the rocks.

This was a new beach. One where the sand was an endless bed of white crystals. I spent that summer speaking to lobster about their color, and dolphins about their smiles. The winter came and the water froze. I walked barefoot across the ocean until I reached another beach.

This one was littered with dreams that never materialized. There lay all my past loves scattered like confetti across the brown sand. I made my way into the jungle where I met an old sage. We smoked and spoke about life and other things to that nature. He claimed he was me, to which I became afraid and headed deeper into the jungle.

I walked till my feet blistered and came across her. There she sat by a clearing under a waterfall. I asked her name but she didn’t respond. We spoke of eternity and the significance of living in the moment. Her feet were bare and her hair was the color of wheat. She took me up the side of the cliff where we proceeded to walk to the edge. She jumped without hesitation. I stepped to the edge some 45 feet above the small pond at the bottom of the fall. I felt a breeze at my back and jumped.

The fall must have been mere seconds but it seemed as though I lived a whole other life.

As my foot hit the water I sat up in my bed, in my studio above the bodega in the Bronx. A tiny bead of sweat ran from my temple to the crisp, white sheet bellow. I turned over and looked out the window and saw a girl crossing the street with no shoes and wheat colored hair.

Do You Think?

Every night is a late one.  Crowded places have lost their appeal.

The faces are different.

The conversations are forced.

The beauty is gone.

Each night becomes a pattern of routine: the same lines, the same results ensue, the world begins again the next morning, and ways are parted. There’s no future in this, it’s merely a distraction for those trying to avoid what’s reality. How can you find substance in emptiness?

Do you think?

I remember being young, when my bones didn’t hurt. The city was cleaner. The contamination of outside influence hadn’t arrived yet. The intruders. Networks of young people gathered on the main roads to protest modernity and violence. We spoke our minds in circles where opinion was absorbed like the air we breath.

Faces were prettier. Moments had a way lingering longer than their lifespan. The doors were always open. I was feeling the same. There were hot days in summer, but they were always accompanied by a soft breeze. Now its become a cat and mouse game. I remember climbing to the roof so we could see the whole city. Connecting with the lights as our witnesses. It was when I became an adult. That summer was when I realized everything that’s at stake.

Turn us back into beginners.

Where I’m Free.

There’s a place that exists hidden among edifices of concrete and glass. It sits at the end of a sliver of road that extends itself into the lake. I’ve gone there as far as my memory can recall. I’ve seen it in stages like Monet. No matter what happens it’ll never be taken from me.

Its amazing now to see what has become of me. I tried for years to be the latest and greatest. I place no stock in that anymore. Its apparent everything is changing, but I welcome the difference of a new place, new life, new struggle.

I struggle silently but brag out loud. Did you ever feel alone in a room full of friends? No matter, cause dreams are my drug. Pain is my motivator, and you’ve always been my support. You showed me how to walk. Taught me how to express myself in the cyphers of your soul.

I learned so much in so little time. The people that are here now don’t understand you. They don’t know the pain we’ve shared. Violence runs rampant on hearts and souls. The Northside might be your face but the Southside is your soul. No one knows how your body works. I do.

I used to love you; now I just admire your bravery. You’ve stood up to every type of abuse and you grew from it…. higher into the sky. You’re the model for a fighter.

They’ll never know your love. They’ll never appreciate your beauty. Their trash will flood your curves. Haters will stand on your nerves claiming you are wasted, broke, ugly, but I know the real you – I never cheated on you.

I remember when I was 16 and you kept me safe. I remember when you lost your temper and cried for days. I know you’ll keep my secrets safe, and for that I could never love another place.

my-chi.

Not Tonight.

The bass kicks. The car speeds. The engine roars like a lion being whipped. We soar; zigging and zagging. Play with our lives on every move. We fly from wrigley to the loop. Speed is an afterthought. This is radical. This is legend.

Charge it to the bar. Looking through shot infused glasses at the brighter side of life. I can’t do it, but I have to. It’s the only way to move. The subtleties of her gaze are what amaze me. She smiles. I smile. She winks, I follow. What can you say to a man whose heart is hollow?

From istanbul to luxembourg, the dreams of two dreamers fuse into one meld of beautiful colors and rhymes. She skips to my beats. My heart skips a beat. This is my soul. These are my words. Whether you agree or not, dreams belong to the individual. But this isn’t a figment of imagination. This is sweat, blood, and tears.

The car peaks. Brakes get pressed. Tires squeak. Its only been a week. No its been a year … maybe three. Walking through woods of endless limits. Holding hands to all while she listens to my plans. The world is all I want, and everything in it. This is where I am. I wait within the purgatory of haze.

Put that on the bullet that will break the peace of night. The one that’ll draw the end of my story.  No glory, no shame. Time will heal the pain. In in the years to come my name will be brought up by those who recognized truth … recognized sincerity in the beauty of language intertwined with feeling.

But now I work out of spite. I work in the dark because my mind’s bright.

Fog wraps over the glasses. Steam covers the sole window in her studio on Willow Ave. She rests her head on my chest like a pillow. Her white sheets stained with a rainbow because I dream in color.

Live Fast. Die Young.

The Cool.

This is the cool.

The wasted women without souls. Those who are resigned to evil. Those who believe they know.

This is the cool.

This is the gold watch that shines while simultaneously hiding the dark of your soul. It’s the suit that covers your figure. This is the make up that covers the skin and beauty within.The self-induced scars that made her beautiful in the eyes of drunk and tasteless men.

This is the cool.

This is the champagne that rains when I walk through. These are the pills that take away my ills. This is the way we cope because we have to prove we’re dope. This is the way we show the world were different while following the cool.

This is the cool that stole my soul. This is the cool that killed my friends, and stole my love. This is the way I cope with being dope. This is how I keep the rocks in my pocket.  This is my heart and how I lock it. This is what makes me this way.

This street.

This hood.

These kicks.

The gangs of fools who follow the cool.

These are the bullets that wiz by bloated brains;saturated with influence and other things. This is the girl that cries to herself. This is the boy that rapes. This is the girl that takes. This is the party, the club, the hate, the racism, the clash between real and fake. It’s whats at stake.

this is the cool

Locked Doors. Different Languages. A plea left in the cold.

The doors are locked and I stand in the rain.

I call.

No one answers.

I make my way down the alley back to the beginning; back to the first smile, the first summer. Looking through a portal back to the age of sincerity; free of the influences of strange worlds and opinions.

Hours & minutes cease, but seconds speed.

I keep walking through the past and back into the present; trying to keep everything in perspective while trying desperately not to lose grip over what’s real. Yet they deal. They scheme. Everything comes with a plan and a consequence, and I hold no immunity from such circumstances.

The left side of the brain tells the right not to worry … to be patient. In the course of a day all colors receive special attention. An intruder took it all from me, and for that I’m in this alley standing in the rain wishing the plan didn’t have such an ending.

Now its all about the left. All about the sleepless nights staring at the cracks in the ceiling; counting the days till the masses are moved. Waiting on the future can be a grueling task.

The world keeps spinning, and the mind carries on for the heart. The struggles of beauty take their toll on the spirit. The worries of admiration take their toll on the body. Now its late nights with strangers speaking their strange tongues and using crude gestures.

So whether there is a plan or not. Whether the sun is supposed to set where it does, and whether the nights are meant to be this cold. Whether pain can only lead to scars, which thus create thicker skin. Whether the doors are never unlocked and the rain never ceases. There is hope within the mind’s own ability to reason new reasons.

peace & love.

A Hallway Of Mirrors

Walking through a space in the new age. The smell of lavender floats through the hall. White lights mirroring dark nights are all that come to gaze. There in the maze of solitude and remorse floats the chance to be great. The chance to be different. The chance to be something that no one has ever seen before.

Furthermore, the world gets colder. The side of the bed is filled with the more of the same.

The world rotates and the mind takes grasp of its new surroundings. From the safety of one’s own imagination, possibilities are explored and options are weighed. Therein lies progress and contempt. What was once original is now tired and worn.

The hallway of mirrors. Each reflecting a certain image back to its subject. A hallway of truths masked by what once was and now is. Realities have shifted, work ethic drifted. Still though there’s hope beyond these walls. Hope of a day with freedom and virtue all intertwined together to create a lasting reality of bliss.

peace & love.