There’s a void that needs to be noted.

The space where my creativity nourished,

is now buried in a box of long past gone lovers.

Clinging to a crippled paper,

hoping that…

dreams can straighten and recover.

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I Bid Farewell To The Exile Kings.

I bid farewell to the Exile Kings:
the street warriors, the broken hearted lovers,
the silent activist, the bloodless brothers.
Y’all go by many names, but will forever remain my drunkn’ friends.

In a small boat I sailed alone and astray with time’s current steering my vessel.
The sea is unforgiving in its own way, suffocating the heart with uncertainty
and drowning the mind with whispers from the Devil.
Despite its cruel intentions, I owe the sea and time for these past memories.

We found each other as outcast do by shipwrecking into one another’s boat.
We took the remains of our wreckage and united our ship, building a crew steadily as we went.
Everyone spilled blood around a table soaked in beer within a fog formed by cigarette smoke
Our philosophy and speeches won’t be found in any textbook but in a book.

I never been good at saying bye, but I never been good at saying hi.
Stay true to you and never give up on your dreams, I write you this to remember me by.

The World Only Sees…

The world only sees
a paycheck,
a million ways to exploit
working hands and sweat
for a dime, and redundant
assets
to throw out.

I only see
men in suits
telling me to sign
on the dotted line.

A life is only worth $7.25

Dear June,

Dear June,
I’ve completely shut all senses.
My body in reality ignoring responsibilities
My mind in limbo till late noon.
I’ve turned to new substances,
harder deadlier substances to reawaken the consciousness,
leaving track marks on the skin.

Tent City.

He laid in bed
in the same place
everyone throws their garbage,
underneath the bridge of I-45.
All he wanted was change
but the world gave him
dimes, quarters, and tokens.

I looked at him as I crossed
the underpass, heading to
job number two,
and he looked at I.

I dropped him a five,
and so desperately wished
I was him
as he did with I.

Don’t Use My Death.

Don’t use my death
as an awareness for suicide.
Don’t use my death
as a message for drug abuse.
Simply cremate me
and let me be,
in a bottle of whiskey,
on the desk where I bled.

Am I a Lost Cause?

I asked my father if I was a lost cause
he said, “son, you’re a cause that can’t be lost.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because
in a sea of people I can spot
you and your curly head.”

I asked my mother if I was a lost cause
she cued in, “sweetie, you’re a cause I’ll never lose.”
“How? I asked.
“Because
of mother’s intuition
I’ll always find you.”

Happy Birthday, Jesse.

Guess who’s 23?
I thought maybe
you could use some poetry.

At age 4
you were just a boy
stepping into the world.

At age 8
You learned to make mistakes
so you gave it your all everyday.

Remember when you were 13
and they asked, “where do you see yourself in 10 years?”
Did you ever think you would be here?

At age 20 (hold on we’re almost done)
you spent most of that year waiting
for 21.

21
you were too drunk to remember,
but I promise you it was fun.

At 22
you set out to find you,
and came back with a new point of view.

Now you’re the big two three
living life both happily,
and lonely.

But I write to you today
to tell you that you’re great.
Ignore that self-doubt and pity
throw it all down the drain.

Cause if you could see what I see,
you would see a man bleeding with possibilities.

Yours truly,
Jesse.

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