last week’s poems X
what’s the bridge from your daydreams to everything real?
the next step for you, dear writer, is to be more you
venice boardwalk (the street of bums & billionaires)
i watched from a café
a dreadlocked relaxed surfer
sipping some maté
barefoot
smiley
talking to everyone
he props his board up
on a pillar
it slips, falls
and the fin hits, hard
a porsche, parked
everyone stops
he picks the board up
winks
and makes a stay quiet sign
everyone laughs
no damage done
except for the dent
and at the end of the day
the bums have the people’s love
on the street of bums & billionaires
why do other people know where you are stuck in life before you do?
and my daydreams were becoming just that
the real thing
there is a home for us dear
and trust me
it’s somewhere near
she was the kind of girl
that guys go full Gatsby for
stop hitting walls
the walls hitting me but i’m not hitting back
i’m going under it
or over it
or the long way round
no wall is knocking me down
or keeping me stuck
the walls are hitting me but i’m not hitting back
i’m ignoring it and making my own path
just out here writing
folk poems
for a penny a piece
a bookstore closed in pasadena and nobody blinked an eye
all my writing for the day deleted in a minute by some spotty wifi
and i didn’t even mind
i just kept writing
and feeling fine
put in another 8 hour shift
without blinking an eye
the realist never loved this way
the pragmatist never felt my pain
the blank page only hurts if you are unprepared
i need you yesterday more than today
but tomorrow i need you forever
please answer my calls
heartbreaking bonsai
he could’ve been so much
but he never got watered
not even the tiny drops he desperately needed
heartbreaking bonsai
brown little leaves falling to the ground
i would’ve called you that night
but i was smarter than myself
i deleted your number
dear writer,
let the old stories die
you’ve taken too long on them already
wasted enough time
write something new
but finish it this time
and share it
the old stories might have had some life
but any story you write now will actually be alive
it’s too neat you need to scuff up some pages
or set them on fire
insomniac with you
insomniac without you
be like the rainforest that doesn’t change temperature when it rains
i lost myself for so long
but i was walking with you
and i ended up at home
note to self:
oh come on you skinny Brazilian man
you can write so much better