July 13, 2012


His phone reads 5:55. He hasn’t slept. Instead he waits. Waits for the message she will never send, for the call she will never make, for the voice mail she’ll never leave. He knows this, but still he hopes. He hopes and waits.

He lies cocooned in his black comforter. His hair remains messy. She liked it messy. His face grizzly as his unshaved beard crept on his face, she liked him clean.

Across the room her crumpled picture sits in front of the trash can, a failed attempt of letting go. She smiles. The smile of a happy memory that now fills his heart with sorrow. A smile that shines through the room. Over the piles of laundry he never bothered to do, the trash he never bothered to take out, the plates of food he never bothered to finish.

Empty bottles of Mickies scatter around the room. On tables on chairs, on the floor. Bottles that were to drunk to find their way to the recycling bin. The failed attempts to forget. Instead they paint a vivid picture of the time they got drunk and she told him she loved him. That she would never leave him. He lies in his mess of thoughts and memories. Does she still think of him like he thinks of her?

He turns over. Time moves too slow. He tries to forget. He wants to scream, he wants to run, he wants to forget. Memories play in his head like a broken record. He still feels her, still hears her, still sees her. He can’t breathe. His chest grows heavy, he tosses and turns and begs for sleep.

Outside, a train cries in the distance. It drags along sleepily closer and closer. His apartment watches and waits, staring as the train draws closer down the tracks. The train grabs his apartment, it shakes it. Bottles jump from the resting place, coming to the floor. They explode like fireworks. The bits jump, run, dance to the rhythm of the trains song.

The train train continues its song. It fills every crevice off the small apartment. He doesn’t hear it, he remains unaware. Instead, another voice sings in his head. It whispers to him sweetly. I don’t love you, get over me. The train leaves, it doesn’t shut the door. It walks away, to work, to school, to elsewhere.

He stays in his room in silence. Its 6 a.m and he still hasn’t slept.

June 1, 2012

The Game-Winning Ball

Jack sits in front the small gray phone. It is covered in scratches from the countless times Angel dropped it. Angel and Manny sit with him. The phone plays a crappy recording of the new song they’d been obsessing over. The static-filled beat flows out of the phones tiny speakers. It flows out to the empty school grounds. Everyone has gone home.

The boys sit, leaning against the wall of an empty class room. They clutch onto cigarettes, letting out an occasional cough. The smoke flows over the empty buildings and past the large palm trees that surrounded the school. It flows away to elsewhere. Angel fiddles with a soccer ball; it has the boys names scribbled across its white surface. It is their ball.

Manny throws punches in the air, boasting like always about how awesome a fighter he is. Mis nalgas Jack remarks. They all laugh. The sun begins to set behind them. It lowers in the horizon but they don’t notice. Instead they keep talking and joking about life, about girls, about the weak ass goal Albert scored at lunch. They talk about how awesome they played. 4-3 against Mr. Harris’s class and they have the game winning ball.

They argue over what song to play next. The street lights turn on. They let the song trail off as they continue talking. Memories. The phone rings. They freeze, sitting there speechless as the phone carries on ringing. It goes silent; only to instantly begin ringing again. Angel’s mom. Her voice carries out or the small speakers, angrily crashing into the boy’s ears. I gotta go home. Angel was moving to Texas, his dad got a new job. Manny was switching schools. 8th grade going to high school somewhere too far. They sit there in silence. No one wants to say good-bye.

            Under the yellow spot light they stand, looking down. The last day. They make promises to call, promises to write, promises to visit. It gets quiet again. One hug, last time they’d be together. Manny and Angel leave. Jack holds the ball in his hand. He reads the names scribbled across it. He smiles, he wants to cry but he can’t. He kicks the ball into a tree. He doesn’t want the memory; he doesn’t want the game-winning ball.

May 30, 2012


The old radio plays a familiar song. It echoes off the walls. Gabriel doesn’t hear it though. Instead he’s hard at work, pencil clenched tightly. He scribbles and scratches, following the rhythm of that new pop song no one would remember in a year. The music flows over the piles of dirty laundry. No one bothers to tell him to pick it up.

He sits on his bed, hunched over an old tattered notepad. Besides his bed is a small wooden nightstand. It is covered with bottles of medication. He has a pill for headaches, a pill for stomach pain, a pill for when he was sad, a pill for when he was scared. He has a pill to help him pay attention. He has a pill for everything.

Gabriel sits there though; ignoring what goes around him. The radio plays, it all blends into a simple melody. Outside he can hear the angry murmur of his parents fighting again. The angry boom of his father’s voice shakes the bottles on the nightstand. He’s drunk again. He’s always drunk. He turns up the volume, he doesn’t want to hear the angry voices anymore. He never does.

He takes a pill. Just one to settle his nerves. Just one to help him through the night. He continues to draw. His strokes get heavier. They grow darker. The house shakes. His mother is crying. The volume on the small radio is as high as it goes. He continues to draw. His father’s voice becomes clearer, louder. It’s like they’re right next to him yelling into his ears.

 He takes another pill. One to hold the tear back like a mighty dam. But they don’t, instead they build up. They overflow, falling on to the page. They sprinkle his paper like a decoration. They smudge it. He crumples it up and throws it away. His arms are covered in the scars of his pain. He stares blankly at the wounds, wishing he could tear them open and let out all the pain.

 He remembers the promise he made to his best friend. He lies on his back. Instead he grabs a bottle, and pops a pill into his mouth. This one is so he can fall to sleep. He falls asleep to the melody of pop accented by the sobs of his mother and the percussion of his father’s angry voice. 

May 3, 2012

There’s a Pill for That

Let me call you happiness.

Let me make the world make sense.

Happiness prescribed in a little brown bottle.

Simply put, I’m sick. Sick of all sorts of wrongs, and you’re my only helper.

Mom’s not home, let’s take four. Daddy’s drunk, guess one more.

Little thing that teases the tongue, bitter taste

sits there, washed away only by cold water’s touch.

Big gulp, like always. Force it down, keep it there.

Side effects: drowsiness, time for bed. Dry mouth, drink more water.

Liver failure, there’s a pill for that.

Dad’s mad again, bottle in hand, time to leave.

Fresh air open spaces, they no longer hold distinguished faces.

Numb and getting numer. There’s a pill for that. 

March 5, 2012

I’ve got stressed out syndrome

When there seems to be a problem the only reliant force, only the most enlightened and most experienced person can solve it. The problem then becomes finding this unknown entity. When problems seem too hopeless and a positive outcome seems to be unattainable, there seems to be this unbearable hopelessness that seems to overshadow any good will left in you. This evolves slowly. It stresses and shuts you out from the world you once knew, putting you instead in a dark and a seemingly inescapable mode of thought. What is left then to become ensnared in this constant stream of unwillingness and inability to do anything at all. You remain paralyzed by unproductive thoughts that cripple your very way of living, retard your very way of being, destroy your healthy way of thinking.

It then seems that there is no one, and nothing in the world left. It circles around you like broken record. It’s a hopeless reminder of what seems to be. And what seems to be is the absolute worst situation you can ever deal with. Minutes turn to days of unproductively, and the only escape seems to fade away. Or for some, to hide away, under the covers like a small child hiding from a monster. There is no comfort in this solitude it seems, and soon every single pleasure of life seems to slip away uncontrollably. You then feel like you are really left with nothing, and there is nothing left.

This overwhelming force becomes a prison, an overbearing weight and you don’t know how to push it off. The sweetness of life becomes nonexistent and replaced with the bitter aftertaste of hopelessness. What is left thereafter but to throw in the towel and give up. Give up and walk away from already long and difficult journey. At this point, at this low and unholy circumstance, you must not fall under the crippling weight of this hopelessness.  You must not allow yourself to fail for the sake of a quick relief from this one instance. Also don’t let the fact that this situation will not be the last persuade your decision. Rather, take a breath. Take a break from the source of the stress.

There are always walls and challenges that will appear on your path to your dreams. Each wall that you will encounter becomes harder than the last. Just remember that if it were easy, there would be no point in trying. Allow the pain and suffering you endure be what fuels you to greatness. The fact that you suffer is the reason for you to keep going, to cross the rickety bridge into the unknown and become who you want to be. If life where easy, there really would be no point in living. Just remember that your solitude is an illusion constructed by the despair that you feel. You are never alone, and know that there will always be someone listening; you just have to start speaking, there is always someone who understands you.

As the clichéd and over repeated advice goes, keep your head up and never give up. Much love and best wishes. 

February 22, 2011

untitled. kuz i dnt know wat to tittle it.

When I think about it, nothing seems to make sense. It seems like every move i make, everything I do, and everything I think I am about to do always seems to be the wrong move. Like I can’t do much right. Sometimes I start to wonder why I am here. How I got to be here, because it seems like I don’t belong.

When they talk, it seems as if it is in a foreign tongue. Always about the different parts of the world they have been to. The lives they had, the number of houses. Stuff that I know nothing about. I laugh at them when they talk about hard lives, when they no nothing about hard. 

It seems almost isolating, that my experience are far from exciting as the glamorous lives they led. Just, confusion and discomfort. That leads to my insecurity. That leads to me just fucking up. 

But at the end of the day, when there is nothing left to talk about, we can all open up a nice coke, near a box of freshly delivered pizza for a nice session of halo. Everyone has to make sacrifices. 

February 11, 2011

I’m a Magician

I am a magician, Alakazam. I could disappear before your eyes. Become invisible and walk unknown in the world. Poof, I’m gone, faster than superman.

I am Godzilla, a terror among the people of suburbia. Monstrous features, monstrous walk. My roars are left untranslated. Fear that I evoke because I am labeled a monster.

I am the state of confusion. Traveling from place to place trying to understand, but never achieving the forsaken goal. Cursed to walk the world nameless. Not even a shadow. I don’t know who to follow.

But they don’t know, kuz I’m different. I am a child of dirt. Gunshots and sirens are my lullaby. My childhood ended at the age of three, independance gained at the age of 5. 

Your nightmares are my reality. My nightmares, worse than what you can imagine. My dreams don’t exist because theres no place outside the bubble you crated for me Mr. President. My friends, they came and went. Some dead, others in jail. Few doing right. Thats my reality.

Mr. White man, I’m only ignorant because you speak for me. You tell people what I’m like, and what I supposedly say. I’m ignorant because you don’t listen, and you don’t let me speak. Thats why people are scared of me Mr. because you paint the picture, with out giving me the chance to paint it myself. 

Worn down houses, black and brown, thats my safe zone. Where you walk fast, windows up, doors locked, thats where I walk so. Thats my home. You made it difficult to live outside Mr. because you left no space for me.

I didn’t ask to be here, you put me here Mr. I am not ignorant, not a monster, I just learned life faster than you Mr. Mr, don’t make me your damn project, because I can make my own name. Stop telling people who I am, because you don’t even know my name. 

I am a magician. Poof. I reappear. 

February 6, 2011

Gotta Love Those Close to You

Friends, real friends, are those who stick by you no matter what. They do what they can to make you feel better, and they are always there. Even if at times they get annoying, they are your friends.

Although I have my complaints about this school, my friends make it completely worth it. Yesterday was Monte Carlo, one of the biggest and “funnest” events of the year. The dance played some crappy music that was too old. I was not motivated to gamble on the over crowded black jack tables. 

Further more, I was not “prepared” enough. The night flew on, and I did win some money. But it was whatever. But this day made me realize, Kalamazoo girls clean up real nice. 

After the useless event, I went to chill at a friends room. 

When I wasn’t being told that I was the nicest guy ever and that I looked really good, friends were drinking shots for me, or pouring me some magical water in celebration of nothing. 

My friends are a crazy group full of sloppy drunks, stoners, and just plain old awesome people. Love these people, even though they never leave.

February 2, 2011

Have You Been Out in a Blizzard in Shorts? I Have!

Yup in a full blown blizzard, I sucked it up and went out in basket ball shorts. You might be asking, why? Because I am a MAN! Get off me.

The snow reached to my knees, and while my legs began to froze, I was triumphant. So next time you complain of the cold, think of how awesome I am. 

February 1, 2011


just wen I was biggining to doubt this school jesus gives me a snow day. For all you people in da comfort of warm wethar, SUCK IT. NO SCHOOL FOR ME!!!!!