Prologue

I was a strange child. I spent countless hours peering out of my bedroom window, observing the world move, yet I was motionless. I would save every movement that I saw; a picture frame imprinted in my memory through a window frame. The irony is I still feel that way; watching the world move on and I’m not moving with it. I am a strange young adult.

I’ve been keeping journals and diaries for the longest I can remember. The main reason for it is the fact that it has always been easier for me to write events or ideas down; rather than sharing them publicly. As I was growing up I always felt like I was being put under pressure constantly. Coming from a family were everybody seemed to be a genius at anything they would set their heart to, made me feel a bit excluded. My grandparent always says, “Your grade point average says a lot about the effort you put into things.” Truth is, I was never the best student and I had a tendency of getting distracted a lot very easily, so it was hard for me to remain focused. I remember being in class and the teacher would be giving instructions, or directions to a certain task, and I would doodle in the margin of my paper; always lost in countless daydreams.

Many people that know me, are aware that I am definitely not a school person; but for some odd reason I always had a deep connection with words, and Literature was the only subject I was outstanding at. Even if English is not my primary language, I always felt a fascination and enchantment that was indescribable every time I would read a story, either for English class or simply for my own amusement. One day I walked into class and my teacher called me to his desk, I immediately thought he wanted to discuss my lack of participation on the previous weeks; instead he went through some files on his computer and lastly he printed out a scholarship application. He wanted me to apply for it based on my writing, and music skills. I clearly remember him saying, “I really want you to apply, I believe you’re a great artist overall and I know you can do this; I believe in you!” I took the form, gave him thanks and smiled. I walked away… I set down on my desk, stared at the paper for at least a good 30 minutes. I had no words, and let me just be clear and say that my G.P.A (grade point average) wasn’t at the time enough to even graduate and get my diploma. How is it possible that someone could have such high hopes when most of the time I feel as if I’m not capable of achieving my own goals? I wasn’t used to the feeling but, it was wonderful for someone to have faith in you. I was there, and in front of me was my future.

Hey there future! So, ummm you tell me what’s next…

I think the most essential part of being a writer is the fact that, we might die more deaths than the average person, but only because we have lived more lives. Poetry is a metaphor for life and humans have worked to reflect our lives in poetry the way other craftsman have left their marks on the world in stone or marble. The effect of poetry as art is similar, and as profound, and often as lasting and durable in its own form. I consider myself to be just another human being, crafted from nothingness, looking for somethingness.

It means imagining I could be my own hero in this story, that for once all it takes is an open mind with paper and pen to leave a legacy behind. That’s what this book is about, “A Step Closer” to become who you want to be, to go where you aspire to go, to be yourself and embrace it, to fall in love with words.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are we stay alive for”

―Dead Poets Society, 1989

Starting From Scratch

I will write poetry to you dear.

If that would make you see how precious you are.

The sorrows of tomorrow no longer I shall fear.

The thrills of the unknown are gone within a blink of an eye.

I gave you truth; hypnotizing summer nights

fulfilled with eternal and unconditional acceptance

of who you have become.

I love the way the breeze took away your worries and despondency.

I love the way you gave in at the climax of our love story.

Poems designated for you; and only for your eyes to read, although they don’t always have a clear beginning, middle or end.

It’s simply, the abstract emotion you make me feel when I hold my pen.

If I could write poetry dear,

I will write to you every day.   

Midnight Sonata

And if you’re still breathing after all this pain and the stars have yet

not fade, you’re the lucky one dear because for ages now

my days have been gray.

Long days, meaningless nights.

The tides come and go, come and go.

Mostly, they just go, leave me standing on a starless beach alone,

gazing into gunmetal seas searching for the glint and glimmer of hope.

Some things hurt,

and tonight I am picking shrapnel out of my flesh

from your words and dropping pieces into this fish tank,

watching them through glass do that silly dance object do when flirting with water.

Thinking, this time, this time, you won’t sink me.

I don’t know what you were aiming for, but you missed. 

We were ellipses in a draft of masterpiece we were never able to finish.

Not The One

I am not the one you are looking for.

There are thunderstorms in my heart

and your skin is resistant to showers that fall upon it, 

or so it seems. 

Slicking off and collecting in iridescent puddles at your feet. 

Your hands are not cupped to catch feelings that pour out of me in sheet music, 

ruptured melodies, a tambourine shiver of words your ears aren’t ready to hear anyway.

Too many praises, not enough apologies.

Too many lighting strikes reminding you that you are fragile and fallible, 

that you still have so much work to do (as do I).

And my origami wings were not designed to unfold in the roughness of your hands.

And find more happiness in a simple sea breeze than any amount of money, 

more inspiration in a small act of kindness than all the Seven Wonders of the World.

When I close my eyes at night I contemplate the criticality of staling murmurations, 

over-analyze subtle key changes, and add new legends to my soul map.

All before tucking myself into the black hole of my bed 

and collapsing into a love language you will never even attempt to understand.     

Mental Illness

In 360 B.C.E. Plato wrote, “Love is a mental illness.”

Modern science has since given weight to this claim with studies

that show similarities occurring in brain events involving love and lunacy. 

Our romance is a chemical dance between dopamine,

adrenaline, and serotonin.

So when I tell you that every time I smell sandalwood on your skin,

hear your name from another’s lips, feel your breath on my neck,

see your face; 

I’m a wreck because my brain lights up like a city at dusk, 

my veins all flood, the planets rust.

And when I say I’m crazy,

Deranged, lovesick and struck,

I’m not just making this up.

My dear, these are all symptoms of the madness that is love.

Honor and Code

There are times when you want to find an answer so badly that your head starts to ache. Trying to look for that one thing that everybody asks themselves every now and then; “what am I willing to die for?” Such a simple question made of complexity and all these deep emotions that penetrate the skin, shattering the bone. Is so much more, is beyond the superficial. Is more than love, hate, acceptance or disgrace. Is about the honor! The legacy you wish to leave of yourself. Many have failed trying to aim high, but let’s face it; we all offer what we have.

I’ll die for justice, for glory and wealth. There are many people out there with ambition. Consuming their thoughts with criticism, ripping souls apart. Wondering if I am good enough to fit the standards that society puts in our lives. Not taking chances and matters into my own hands. And all of it is for being too afraid, afraid of raising my voice high. So high that everybody in the other side of the ocean could hear it! Wanting to make myself the owner of my emotions. Not letting others interfere. What a beautiful thing to do! Instead of pointing out our flaws and imperfections, those are the things that make us unique reflecting who we are and showing our typical human nature.

I’ll die for glory because I still have hope. They tend to take my dreams away, make me believe I can’t succeed. Always find myself thinking that I am doing something wrong. I’ll die for those that put on a fight whenever they take away our rights. Rights that guarantees us freedoms concerning religion, expression, assembly, and the right to petition. I’ll die for wealth. A clean state of mind, because memory can hunts us in our darkest times. I am a sinner, a sinner that prays for forgiveness. I implore pity and mercy to a god I don’t believe in. I believe in a god that doesn’t judge and makes exceptions for his children. A god that can trust and his love is based on courage, confidence, dreams and optimism. I don’t believe in a god that labels people. Black, White, Hispanic, Asian, Hetero or Homosexual; for Christ sake, don’t you get we are all people!  

I’ll die for humanity, for my word, and my freedom… 

Delirious Minds

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I was thinking on how today as the sun sets in the valley of countless multi-color clouds, the moon will rise. It will rise telling the story of her past loves, kissing the stars in the bittersweet agony of a broken heart. The next morning will be Monday; well, isn’t that a relief. The days pass by but your memories remain still. Not speaking a word, not saying how you feel. Silence… that’s all I hear. In the crowds you stand out, so different, so remarkable, looking for change. A bizarre idea, a belief of hope. But once again, perhaps the most important thing we bring to another person is the silence in us, not the sort of silence that is filled with unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. The sort of silence that is a place to refuge, of rest, of acceptance of someone and as they are. We are all hungry for this other silence. It is hard to find. In its presence we can remember something beyond the moment, a strength on which to build a life. Silence is a place of great power and healing.

Sometimes, whenever I look outside at the night sky through my window I wish upon a star. Knowing that wishes don’t always come about in the way that we think, but if you believe and keep your mind open, there’s a really good chance they will manifest in some way. Because even though I didn’t realize it at the time, that was exactly what my night star did for me. Now is Tuesday morning and the sun is shining bright. Its vivid colors representing eternal life. A strong soldier fighting against the dark. The day keeps on going, I see many faces rushing up and down the halls; almost as if they had no time to even say “hello”. Despite the fact that they walk along with extremely long faces, left me wondering what could make them so sad. The night was approaching, and I fell right into her arms, falling asleep in serenity. Felt like years of an eternal peace inside.

It’s Wednesday and the sky cries. The birds are not singing, the animals are not running around, not even the squirrel that jumps from tree to tree every morning has bothered to come outside. I remember a huge tiredness coming over me, a kind of lethargy in the face of the tangled mess before me. It was like being given a thousand math problems when your brain is exhausted, and you know there is some far-off solution, but you can’t work up the energy even to give it a go. I remained still in that moment. I was there. I wasn’t aware of anything else but the sound of the rain. I was stuck on that deep instance were as if the sound became a part of my heart-beat, were I felt it running down my veins.

We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself. That is why life is always like a sketch. No, “sketch” is not quite the word, because a sketch is an outline of something; the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch is our life, is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture… It’s Thursday and every day is procrastination, trying to get work done. Trying to keep it moving, making mistakes and hopefully learning from them. People come up to me asking non-sense questions. I’ve got nothing; nothing to say. We are all ignorant of our true feelings, we are all hiding from them. Why? Why are we so scared? There nothing more beautiful in its simplest form than to love and being loved. I have learned that love^__the beauty of it, the joy of it, and yes, even the pain of it^__is the most incredible gift to give and to receive as a human being.

It’s Friday. “Party-day”, as many people say. Meanwhile, I find myself writing articles, and letters I am sure I will never send. I’m talking about philosophy and some old Beatles’ song. Quoting book titles that resonate deep inside my bones. “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for”^__Dead Poets Society, 1989.

It’s Saturday and a whole week has almost passed by. I think I probably have wrote a thousand pages worth nothing. All of them talking about how ironic things toured out to be. I found my old shoe box, the one filled with old love letters, photos and unwrapped gifts. This is what I like about photographs. They’re proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect. It was all. It was my small infinite of perfection. I think it’s such a funny thing. We look back in time and never realize that we had it all. We really did. I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Not even the slightest portion of my imagination could’ve ever guess that this was it. And that there’s so much more yet to come! I suppose we miss what we had and never came back, but just picture this; maybe tomorrow might come and surprise you, knock you off your feet and it could be your greatest accomplishment yet.

We are back to Sunday, the moon still cries over her lost unforgotten love. I know the sun will rise in the morning demanding for work. I realize I will write limitless pages of stories that still don’t have an end. Time will not stop and won’t settle, it will make you grow and show your true colors reflecting who you are. In the agony of the night the sleepless lovers find a new story to write. The hopeless romantics seek for an eternal charm to keep them alive in the shadowy mist of the black sky. In the morning, a whole angry mob of realistic creatures try to conquer a non-stop journey also known as life. Try to make a mark, leave a legacy. Who knows, tomorrow can be the first blank page of a 365 page book. Remember to write a good one.