Vices (Raw Cut)

My mother left me
At the tender age of three
Her life taken so unceremoniously
A soldier’s death, empty
Like the clip in her SMG
And dad wasn’t around, I guess
He drowned himself in vices, yes
Demon on two shoulders, no presence of halo
Somehow he still came home everyday though
I remember days when he would smile
And my happiness would echo for miles
But, shadows always hang over our lives,
Darkness, manifested in his protective lies
Cut my conscience deeper than knives
Those needles, you weren’t sick
White powder, don’t lie,
It’s that cocaine shit
But it’s okay,
Daddy had the bills paid
My Adonis smoking chronic
And tears mixing with Gin and Tonic
His demons now my demons
Inherited, I came from his semen
And he wouldn’t save me
Saving lives only postpones death see
So my elevated research high
Using acid to raise my knowledge
Higher
Daddy paid the bills, and daddy also popped pills
But I had no mommy to hold me up
Women. he had no shortage
He told me once
Ms. Straight Black hair, brown eyes, and hourglass figure
Was mommy reincarnated
Revival of her memory, cremated
Belief and hope
Could she hold me up?
Nope
But I needed to be up, higher
Hello weed stacks
Should I have stayed young for another minute
Weed, pills, LSD
Should I question, if I ever push the limit
I’m just misedeucated according to Ms. Hill
You cant change a person if you don’t have the will
Mentality, barely focused on legality
Congeniality, ha, I was on that fuck the world, reality
Was never nice
But when I was tripping acid
Every hand from behind the veil comforted me and my vice
I’m sick, that’s why I have these needles
I’m in pain, let me smoke this medicinal just a little
His pain, my pain, they’re both one and the same
My tears, his tears, they’re both in this little puddle here
At the base of an effigy of a life worth living
And we can burn that shit down soaked with our vices with little misgivings
Can’t I be alone in this world, wander
With no weight but sadness
Can you look at me and be glad this
Young man here, has lived one more year
Don’t judge with your eyes, my habits should cause no fear
Hypocritical, I understand my daddy now
You survived this life, not sure how
Mommy was gone, your wife, yeah I understand now
Why we both drift between infinity and oblivion
Carefully crafted boat sheltered by vices, two out of one million
But at my age now, the past I’ve moved past
Those thoughts in my head, no longer move as fast
Because I’ve burned the effigy
And someone above is blessing me
And I’m really hoping it’s your touch my OG
My Adonis smoking chronic
Your soul, my tonic

Her Poem

I loved you yesterday
At Least the thought of you
Physical transcendence of my emotional though process
Making connections with you was little like hopping through the rabbit hole
Wrapped tongues, vice grip
Burden upon my psyche
Lover’s embrace, a siren’s song
Piercing my heart, hickeys on my aorta
Loose clothing and pit patters of the heart
Nervous inhalations, intoxicating whispers
And seal my mouth before I utter another syllable
With the scarlet letter of your kiss
The cadence of our song
Tongues tied, close breath
Rasping beauty, reminded me of Billie Holliday
Quintessential voice of the ages
Harmonized to the tune of two lovers
Moaning, singing, melodic soprano of ecstasy
Upper reaches of the sky, scratching the heavens
With the high note soprano of our melody
Enrapturing eyes, almost sinister
Raptures in pupils, and scratches on my back
Time lapse between breath and skin
Lapsing into assimilated knowledge of time passed
Ages of men as lips locked
Empires fallen when tongues battled
Worlds discovered as hands explored
But even if the world ended
Wouldn’t Adam and Eve still live in eternity?
Can you not fathom
That when Atlas shrugged
And the world fell on my already burdened shoulders
Tears forming stars in the cosmos
That still reminded me of it reflected in your eyes
Because the pain
Nothing like the inflicted suffering
I caused on the incessant beating
Of your now cold heart
Do you not realize?
There are no nights anymore
That reflect the darkness enshrined and imprinted
In my heart and on my mind
Caused by the hand that touched your heart
And supple chest, gently
Then coarcted your love forever

The Irony of Dreadful Goodbyes (My Gold Key Winning work, see my post before this)

 

When you think the world can’t get any worse, sometimes God throws death at you just to remind you it can. What’s worse is, in my case, God seemed to have made me the butt of a joke when he even made death something ironic. I’m rather sure that I’ll never forget when I found out my grandfather, Frankie, died. After the funeral of my close friend Ibrahim, on a cliché rainy day, riding home in a car so dark and gloomy like someone had sucked the soul out, I had begun analyzing my life. Death scared me, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to cope with it again. Someone should have noticed in the car when my mother sobbed and shook that something was wrong despite the fact that we had just returned from a funeral. Entering my home with a huge weight on my shoulder, I felt like I was suddenly crushed under a burden heavier than Atlas. My mother looked at me with these eyes that told me everything I needed to hear before she spoke a word.

 

“Boys, you know your grandfather has been sick for a week or so now-”

 

My mother’s words choked off before she could finish her sentence as she began to weep deeper than the willows. Attempting to recompose herself she continued,

 

“Your grandfather passed away earlier today.”

 

And that was all I needed, before they were there, clouding my vision. Tears that I never shed during Ibrahim’s funeral, tears, I never shed over so many things, and over so many years, suddenly poured down in dilapidated drops. I had cried before this, but they weren’t the tears I cried that day. As we all stood there, sprinkling our tears onto the kitchen floor, we got a call from my cousin Jerome. My mother could barely take the phone call knowing Frankie was close friends with Jerome. He lived around the same area as us and was driving over to our house as he spoke on the phone. I dreaded him coming, knowing the melancholy that would come with.

 

On that day, I figured out how death forges a connection between people. I never was too attached to my cousin Jerome, who was ahead of me in his years with his own family and such. I sensed him though, when he pulled up to the house. I somehow knew to walk outside and ignore my shoes. There he stood, leaning on his work car arms crossed and he looked at me. Walking towards him, the composure I had suddenly dropped. Before I knew it I was in his arms and we were crying together. He stroked the back of my head as I sobbed, wracked with pain and sorrow, into his sweater. I never really hugged my cousin before, but that day, crying together in the rain, I knew if he hadn’t hugged me in the middle of that sidewalk I would have been in so much more pain.

 

Events moved quickly after that. I don’t remember days or when things took place. I can barely recall if I was supposed to go to school. Before I knew what was happening around me, I was in North Carolina where my grandfather lived before he died. Events still whizzed by and my confusion only increased as I stumbled through life dealing with grief. Then my arrival at my grandparent’s house encroached upon my bubble of self absorbed thought. The significance of that event wouldn’t stand out to anyone but my family. That land I placed my foot on when I left the car was what my brother described as Frankie’s “kingdom”. That’s an understatement for me. The land was his soul, and as I walked, it radiated through me reminding me of him. People were around me, but I only went through the motions. Giving hugs, saying words barely formed in my head, and just living through it. I continued to stumble though this life flipped upside down, feeling intoxicated because of a drink called sorrow. Leaning on the door frame, I gazed over the room Frankie set up for his grandchildren, my cousins and brothers, to stay in whenever we came to visit. I laid in one of the beds and rocked myself back and forth, hoping to escape to my dreams where maybe it would be better, but Morpheus, the god of dreams, must have been afraid of my tears that day because not even he delivered me dreams.

 

We stayed at the house for hours, and memories continued to flow over me. Weekends when I’d sit in front of his old TV playing Nintendo 64 and he’d sit and watch, smiling. The weekend when my parents left my older brother and I to go to Disneyland and Frankie made the experience bearable. Sitting in his car, which I can’t remember for the life of me what type, as he gave me gum, and discussed the finer things in life he always wanted and how he would someday buy a farm and get me horse. The horse would always bring a smile to my face. I was pulled from my reminiscence when a commotion outside the room bought me back to reality. Few times have I seen things in my life happen to my mother; remembering that scene that was unfolding still makes my throat clench. There she was on the floor, hysterical, my dad holding on to her hands trying to help her back to her feet. It was like a living metaphor as my father tried to pull her up from the more comfortable floor of grief. She fell twice, and each time my heart dropped with her.

 

Eventually, I lost track of the downward spiraling episodes of this phase of my life. My feet guided me places that I wasn’t cognizant of. My mind was set on the idea that somehow when I got home to New York I would be okay, so it suffered through it. We had plans to stay at my grandparent’s house, but my mother couldn’t do it. Being there only bought her more grief. I know it bought my thoughts to places darker than the depths of hell. Somewhere between being at the house and leaving, my mother asked if I could write a poem for the funeral. I’m known for my poems painting vivid pictures and evoking emotions in people I barely understand, and my mother wanted one of those. My mouth said I could, but my mind had a different agenda. As I sat there in front of my notebook of poems, nothing flowed onto the page. My creative bank was locked, and the key in no conceivable place for me to retrieve. Tears welled up blocking my vision because in my mind, it was like I had nothing to say about him. My poetry, which has always flowed out of me, expressing my feelings, suddenly wasn’t there. I felt like I was still at the butt of God’s joke.

 

A day or maybe two passed by, and the funeral was a daunting task I had to wake up to. There’s a block in my memory, but I remember few events from the funeral. First, the sounds of gospel spirituals sung, at a funeral for my grandfather who was not a religious man. The soft red carpet down the aisle I felt when I fell and cried hysterically. The salt of my tears and the slight flare of anger as my brother read his poem about Frankie, that deep down I wish I wrote. The ringing in my ears as gun shots fired because my grandfather was a veteran. I remember my mother on the floor crying in front of the open coffin of my grandfather. Finally, I remember as I stood in a line, waiting to see my grandfather, decrepit, in an open coffin, dreading each step I took towards it. Then, as I stared at his face I saw a man I didn’t recognize and I felt deep anger. Makeup, and whatever else, defiled the face of my grandfather, with a forced smile on his face. Why? To look good for God? Why had they changed the man I loved and respected in his final resting? There I stood, feeling once again like the victim of God’s joke.

 

The rest didn’t matter to me. So many formalities and other things that didn’t hold any value to me occurred. At the cemetery, I slowly stalked the graves surrounding the new one my grandfather rested in. My cousin’s and I looked at grave stones recognizing some of the names. Elders whispered our relationships behind us.

 

“That was your great uncle.” or “She was your 2nd cousin, honey.”

 

Yet all I heard, despite my relation to them, were names that meant little or nothing compared to Frankie’s. We returned to my grandparent’s house, but I didn’t ride with my direct family. Instead I rode with two of my cousin’s and my aunt. I was afraid to travel with my family because I knew what my façade of composure I built would break when I even heard a whimper from my mother. When we arrived back at Frankie’s “kingdom”, it was a distinctly different experience from when we visited earlier. My cousin’s, my brothers, and I, all walked around the land and reminisced together this time. We’re all very close so I felt comfortable, like they were my safety blanket protecting me from breaking down again. We all stopped at his car, the car I sat in as he told me about the horse he’d always buy me, and we discussed, just like Frankie would, the finer things in life, the future, and the farm he always wanted.

 

We continued to talk and walk until we stumbled on my grandma in her room that she shared with Frankie. She was sifting through some of his stuff. As we all stood there watching her, she told us,

 

“Boys, these things don’t mean much now. Why don’t you all take something, you know, to remember him.”

 

As we stared at the belongings of our grandfather, we realized they were pieces of our past, things we were all too familiar with. The necklace we all played with at some point. His hats that that got me started with my obsession with hats. Even the many watches he always wore. One thing stood out to me though, something I’d definitely never seen before. There on the bed, making a noise I now know well, were his dog tags. I picked them up and I immediately knew what I wanted. Pulling it over my neck, Frankie’s experiences in the war that he never told me seemed to wash over me. I imagined him in trenches somewhere, biting on the dog tag or holding it in his hand like I do. The dag tag was meant for me. I knew that, and everyone else did too.

 

Things still aren’t the same after his death. When moving down to North Carolina, I knew it suddenly would be worse. Being down here would always remind me of him, just like the dog tag around my neck that I never take off. Through the whole experience I learned many things about myself, my grandfather, and how God works in mysterious ways. I questioned him through the whole experience, but he simply smiled down on me knowing sometime I would understand. It took me a while, but I did. I understood that you can’t take life for granted, ever. People may think they understand what it means, but until they are directly affected, to a point where they question their own very strong belief, they don’t really know. I still regret many things, like never writing that poem, the guilt I still feel for forgetting constantly to call him while he was sick, and never hearing his iconic, “Hey man!” as I walked into his house when we moved down south. Looking back on my childhood, I know he always valued me as his grandson.

That Moment…

That moment when you feel really good, but really crappy at the same time. So, as not many of my followers(which I have barely any of) I’m still in High School and there’s this very prestigious contest called the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I entered two of my poems from the blog, “Battling My Demons” and “Talking to My Head” as well as a Personal Essay/Memoir that I wrote in class. When I entered the poems I was pretty confident, which was around maybe November. Then I grew as a writer and realize they weren’t terribly well written. Deadline rolled around and poems that were much better were sitting on my blog and I couldn’t enter them. I guess I was still hoping for Gold Key on both (highest recognition) but I wasn’t expecting it. Well, results were supposed to roll in on the 31st of January. I was extremely excited you know? Then, it got postponed. Until February 4th. What in the hell!? So I waited, not very patiently mind you. The time was posted as 4:00 pm for when the results would be revealed. And 4:00 rolled around today…nothing. I was nervous, frustrated, pissed, lots of stuff. So I had to wait, again. 6:00 the results are released only to find…I won. Gold Key. But not on what I expected. You guessed it, my essay got gold key and my poems got honorable mention; not even silver key. So despite my excitement, happiness, and pure relief, I was a bit disappointed. Nonetheless, there’s always next year and if anyone read this or anyone of my poems, thank you for always giving me positive feedback and love.

-Deus

P.S. – I’m posting the essay later tonight.

Kryptonite

Erupting from my pen is life

Which gave birth to myself

A being of ink

Dark as the crevice where my heart lies

Flowing from my pen is

Descriptive painted “things” that

Come into existence around me

Then one evening A lonely evening

From my pen came my masterpiece

Into existence

From my pen she came

Gracing my vision with beauty

Staring

I couldn’t help it

She was my perfect creation

A beautiful woman

She stayed with me

It could be assumed

That between us

We shared love

But everyday

A creeping feeling

Could I really call it love?

One afternoon I ask

“Can you smell the roses

Even though your lying in my poppy field

On a cliff by the sea?”

And her nose pressed by mine

We reached out together

Attempting to break the sky

For it was my cage you see

Restricting my thoughts

From seeing my own masterpiece

Seeds of doubt

And whispers of snakes

Sometimes speak louder than love

Because that fatal night

When I gazed at my pen

I questioned

“Did she ever really love me?”

Too late

With this pen

I wrote her away

My masterpiece

Tainted

Could only find its way

To the wastebasket

Savior Suite (Decided to upload them together)

I. Savior I Always Needed

Heroes are forged by the blacksmiths of heaven

At least that’s where I think Hercules comes from

Me, born of mortal blood

Not climbing from the womb of my mother

Bought into the lackluster world that needed saving

By no means did Hercules convince me of Heroism

Normal, a standard a “normal” child looked to

Along with average

Taught like religion on old ripped tapestries

Stuck in the norm mindset

I was no ones savior

Flip this scene of innocence and normality

To a growing male child

Raging hormones and crazy testosterone

Mind on girls, school, books, poetry, music

A long list

Enter stage left my conflict

Or maybe the rising action

The fair lady tainted by slits on pristine wrist

Hidden from the world and surrounded by perfection

Name her Olympia

She was art

Drawn in her by her crimson river of love

Same color as the blood that dripped from her wrist

Romantic feelings bought me to her

I left with something else

When her wrists were sealed

By who she considered a hero

Hercules flamed inside me

Could I be the worlds savior

As I held Olympia’s wrist closed

And red stains on our painting together

Became beautiful and whole

Bringing Olympia close

To bring her from oil on canvas

Into my arms of protection

Whispering warm comfort

“It’s okay, even if no one else does, I care, I understand, I love you”.

 

II. Savior I Always Wanted or Fall of a Hero

Picture me now from painting to painting

Knight in shining armor

Or angel with one wing

suddenly the savior, Hercules

Or Arthur, sword drawn from the stone

Normality?

I scoffed at

Who am I now?

Friend of the people

I’ll save you damsels

From your burning paintings

Olympia simply was the warm up

Here from stage right

Comes a conflict of greater depth

The hero hath been reduced

To normality

Abruptly once again

Mortal blood in veins

Wondering from paintings

Into exhibition halls

Or locked cloisters

But foretold in prophecy

Heroes rise, correct?

Divine intervention

Enter a damsel again

Awakening the weakened hero

Only to find

the prophecy wrapped in falsehood

Could save no one

He can’t save anyone

Maiden with dagger pointed at chest

Biting her thumb at the world

She calls like a siren

Mortal hero acting as savior

Fails and falls

Deep into his own distress

Clasping the hands of the siren

Call her Venus

Questioning himself

And speaks to her

Words of attempted warm comfort

“I can help, I care”

With response

“Where is the savior I always wanted?”

Can’t I save anyone?

 

III. Movement III

There was never a hero

If anything, a tragic one

Removing the invisible crown that

Painted me

Wrote me in epics

And shut me down

This hero was no savior

He needs one himself

Why can’t I save anyone?

Because I can’t save myself

Mirrors reflect me

Hercules on one shoulder, Arthur on another

Both leave as knees buckled

My corpses sinks to the ground

Contemplating the story

Of the false savior

Who needed the saving

Movement Three of “Savior”

There was never a hero

If anything, a tragic one

Removing the invisible crown that

Painted me

Wrote me in epics

And shut me down

This hero was no savior

He needs one himself

Why can’t I save anyone?

Because I can’t save myself

Mirrors reflect me

Hercules on one shoulder, Arthur on another

Both leave as knees buckled

My corpses sinks to the ground

Contemplating the story

Of the false savior

Who needed the saving

(If you don’t understand the poem, it’s meant to stand alone but may be understood better after reading the other two poems of my “Savior” suite found on my blog)

Savior I Always Needed

Heroes are forged by the blacksmiths of heaven

At least that’s where I think Hercules comes from

Me, born of mortal blood

Not climbing from the womb of my mother

Bought into the lackluster world that needed saving

By no means did Hercules convince me of Heroism

Normal, a standard a “normal” child looked to

Along with average

Taught like religion on old ripped tapestries

Stuck in the norm mindset

I was no ones savior

Flip this scene of innocence and normality

To a growing male child

Raging hormones and crazy testosterone

Mind on girls, school, books, poetry, music

A long list

Enter stage left my conflict

Or maybe the rising action

The fair lady tainted by slits on pristine wrist

Hidden from the world and surrounded by perfection

Name her Olympia

She was art

Drawn in her by her crimson river of love

Same color as the blood that dripped from her wrist

Romantic feelings bought me to her

I left with something else

When her wrists were sealed

By who she considered a hero

Hercules flamed inside me

Could I be the worlds savior

As I held Olympia’s wrist closed

And red stains on our painting together

Became beautiful and whole

Bringing Olympia close

To bring her from oil on canvas

Into my arms of protection

Whispering warm comfort

“It’s okay, even if no one else does, I care, I understand, I love you”.

That Girl (Don’t really like this one)

Let me frame your face,

Let me compose poetry,

Let me stare,

Let me understand,

Let me be the shoulder you lean on,

Let me know what no one else does,

Your that girl,

You know, when thoughts don’t make sense, but you don’t care,

And you find yourself grasping for words,

Your the one when,

I see you a mile away,

And I can just easily smile,

You make me stupid,

In all the right ways,

Deserving of my attention,

Head full of halo,

Let me frame your face,

Or let me paint it,

Let me compose poetry,

You know your my subject,

Just let me stare,

It’s not weird, I just love you,

Let me understand,

The intricacies of your beautiful mind,

Let me be that shoulder,

Because our warmth together,

Makes me feel better,

Please let me know,

Whether I stay or go

Not Sure

I think I loved you yesterday,

I doubt I do today,

Don’t look at me,

You know I can’t look directly into your face,

Love isn’t a thing so easily changed,

But I say that standing before you,

As you beg me stay,

Don’t hold my hand or stroke my face,

Your touch is just too much,

Cause I still want you,

I just can’t let you love me,

You don’t know my darkness,

But I know your purity,

How could I taint that,

Which I love so much