Virulent.

As the first fleecy snowflakes fall to the ground, 
then disappear, in winter, 
it floats through the skies on the gentlest breeze, 
as quiet as a whisper. 

Blink and you will miss it—it is smaller than a sliver. 
Delicate as crystal and nearly twice as brittle,
one misstep and it will shatter;
decorating the ground like shrapnel. 

Feeble as a fleece slipper 
sliding across a cotton floor;
it has become as frail as origami

made of candy floss, sold by the seashore. 

Programmed to roar although 
all it can muster is a single pathetic mew, 
striving to be bold 
but it is only the lightest hues. 

Dainty like the breaking dawn 
and its glistening, gossamer dew, 
it secretly dreams of being steel 
but is soft as stained glass over pews. 

Society is to blame 
for this fragile masculinity, 
that brainwashes boys into 
becoming men who are afraid to feel. 

This misunderstood manliness 
is more timid than the shrew, 
as it tells males their ideas 
are best expressed through abuse. 

"Boys don't cry," we're told, 
encouraging us to be aggressive, 
until our repressed emotions return, 
with a vengeance, as depression. 

Being masculine is not 
the opposite of being feminine, 
all it takes to be a man 
is to simply identify as one. 

Unless we refuse to accept their opinions, 
nothing can ever change. 
We must rally together and reject 
their toxic masculinity that reigns. 

Gentry Fried.

Wolf of wall street types,
with slicked back hair,
stole the stained ceramic tiles
right out from underneath
my single mother's
sweet, aching feet.

She saved every penny
that she earned,
to buy this house–
her pride and joy–
only to be evicted
by sharks
disguised as sheep
who dragged her out
between their teeth.

Immediately painting over
offending graffiti
with signs that read,
'Starbucks: coming soon'
like the kiss of death,
with another five
within twenty feet,
where my b-boy crew and I
once breakdanced
to the Beastie Boys
and Run DMC.

Ma was relocated
forcefully to some
suburban scene,
that might as well
have been called Hell,
instead of Parish Street.

She stuck out like an alien,
an unwelcome stranger
in this neighbourhood,
where whiney women
wined and dined
on weekdays,
then attended church
on Sunday evenings.

Still, they locked
their cars from the inside
when mom had the audacity
to step foot outside her door.

This community of Stepford wives,
that looked down on my madre
from their horses high,
were more self-righteous
than born again convicts
intent on preaching to the choir.

Gentrify some other guy,
erect your crooked condos
in some other sky!

As you build profit,
and raze projects
that once unified
people who would
never have seen
eye to eye otherwise.
Different cultures came together,
mingling with one another,
leaving prejudice behind;
these meetings even
drastically reduced crime.

Until the men in black arrived
with their pockets lined,
drooling over future
bank account balances
that were stacked sky-high.

Single mothers, tossed aside,
fell so low on the social hierarchy
that they simply remained silent,
in spite of the tears in their eyes.

Another ghetto fairy tale
that would not end
with 'happily ever after'
but instead,
just with a single sigh.
.

Maktub.

When we strive to become better than we are, 
the world around us gets better, too. 
The universe hears the aching uncertainty in our hearts
so, be patient as it clears a path for us to pursue. 

Whether through prayer or wishes made in wells, 
the stars will align to light our way.
If it is written, only time will tell, 
until then find delight in every blessed day. 

If you should encounter calamity upon your soul's quest, 
hold tightly to your faith and keep marching on. 
Even if you fall seven times before you pass the test, 
the secret of life is to keep getting up until all fear is gone. 

Do not forget the universe exists inside of you. 
Like alchemy–you are the winds, deserts, oceans, and even the moon. 
The denial of your own self-worth is just like blasphemy.
Love yourself so brightly that your dreams are drawn to you.

If it is written, take a deep breath, 
and soon you will know the truth; 
close your eyes and listen to your spirit 
as it softly whispers "Maktub."

hate that i love u.

Nearly four years to the day 
since I first saw your pretty face, 
funny how life works that way.
It's like you vanished in thin air without a trace, 
left me replaying all the things you used to say,
like, "Baby, you're my favourite member of the human race" 
and that you'd always be right here to stay.
Now you've got me falling from grace,
cancelled all my colours, and you left me gray.
Stuck here missing you, addicted to the chase,
but I can't keep at these games you wanna play,
in the hopes of one day feeling your embrace.
You're still the sculptor and I am your clay.
Brighter than all the stars in outer space, 
now all that's left to do is pray,
'til I accept you're really gone and not just misplaced.

Me Before You.

A paper bridge under attack by razor winds, 
I was as fragile as a baseball bat made out of glass. 
Naive as a child sheltered from the outside world, 
I fell for your sparkling words. 
Left in a mess, 
a heap of soiled linens on the floor, 
I drowned repeatedly in my tear-filled bath 
until I returned to stone. 
I will go back to the warrior that I was before.

Street Symphony.

A single silver dagger,
rims plated with chrome,
cracked wooden doors,
and a rust-covered stove. 

Sirens are the soundtrack,
bass vibrates under feet,
drowning out the screams
as bullets echo in the streets.

Blood stains the sidewalk,
silence fills the empty halls,
mothers say silent prayers
because of silenced calls.

Innercity fairy tales, 
storybooks from the hood,
thickened skin on children,
from growing up too soon.

Elemental Ecstasy.

You send me reeling through the streets of Seville, 
a siesta from my regular routine, 
flamenco dancing in the sun, 
my heart beats to the rhythm of the Spanish guitar.

You send me blasting through the skies, 
up, up and away into outer space. 
I sail beyond the stars, and dance beside the moon. 
Looking down at the clouds, I save a picture in my mind.

You send me scorching into the Sahara heat, 
with only your kiss to hydrate me, as we melt into the sand. 
Your every wish is my command, let me be your caravan. 

You send me streaming through the ancient seven seas, 
bathing in the Atlantic ocean, 
before we dive deeper into the blue. 
Floating in the coral. let me tickle you with kelp. 
Let this moment last forever, you are my wishing well.

Love Thyself.

Like the kettle that comes to a boil without heat,
there is no joy in riding a bicycle without a seat.

Unless your own reflection makes you smile bearing teeth, another human won't be able to make you feel complete.

Priority.

The days where our love eclipsed all else are gone, 
so do not ask me to feel the same again.
Although there was a time when the sun 
solely rose and slept against the horizon of your eyes.

We cannot expect broken glass to ever be the same. 
You're right, my life, that the memories remain. 
But just like a chemical reaction can't be reversed, 
they cannot be changed.

Sure, we could attempt to start anew, 
although you should already know 
how deep my love runs for you. 
And I never thought I'd see the day 
when I placed anything before us. 

But now that I have seen the world's 
true face and all it's ugliness, 
I fear that I have been exposed 
to hatred and mistrust. 

Yes, it's true that the sun still appears 
first in the east before disappearing in the west, 
but that does not mean that the tragedies I've seen 
are ones I can easily forget.

Singularity.

Society seems dead set on causing its single citizens distress, unable to process that self-love could also be a path that leads to happiness.

Placated, and often patronized for being on one's own and not one-half of a pair, as though dining alone is pitiful, and is a fate worse than illnesses that are rare.

One is the loneliest number—our relatives and coworkers remind us like clockwork every day, as they poke, prod then pry, and ask questions why "great guys like us" wake up alone, instead of with some babe.

Despite my attempts to explain that I've finally reconnected with the boy who I lost long ago, their eyes go blank, and they stare open-mouthed,  convinced that I've run out of hope.

After desperately dating for fifteen years, and regularly being reduced to tears, I honestly enjoy my own company, for once, and no longer fear the absence of my peers. 

Still, we are programmed to chase unrealistic interpretations of romance, Instead of being encouraged to first learn how to hold and warm our own hands. 

When every culture conditions us to covet our own versions of their fairy tales, is it any wonder why sadness prevails once our fantasies inevitably fail? 

If we were raised to love ourselves first, we would never forget our worth, and only accept the kind of love that lifts us up, the kind of love that we deserve.

Sardonic Soldier.

Chewed up, spit out and cut down to the quick from too many false starts, 
I'm sick and tired of repeatedly being tricked and then torn apart.
Just because of my training, you deny me my heart, 
as though soldiers were only created to finish wars that you start.
I've been blamed too many times that I keep losing count,
stepped on landmines, and had to stop myself from bleeding out.
Treated like another weapon in your artillery, 
you better get the hell away from me, and my periphery.
You ripped open my chest without warning and carved out my organs, 
replaced all that made me human, 
with worthless purple hearts that were nothing but useless. 
And now all because I'm ruthless you pretend to act all surprised, 
as you let your jaw drop to the ground and you widen your evil eyes. 
Come a little closer, let me show you what I gained from this war, 
aside from this stop-loss syndrome, and a marriage that ended in divorce. 
All the time I was away brainwashed into battling your enemies overseas, 
my once faithful wife was fighting her own battle but all on her knees.
Even if I was just a toy, I would still hate you, 
spit in your face, and then probably even castrate you. 
You wasted my life so don't think I'm gonna spare you, 
I'll do wicked things until I really scare you, 
Take a little anxiety, inject it into your brain 
so you never have the chance to demoralize another human again. 
Salute you? Sir, no, sir, I'd be a fool to, 
do anything but pollute you, 
with the same kind of poison you used to, 
turn me into this monster who will not rest until you're abused too.

Written for a contest that provided Eminem's 'Toy Soldier' as its prompt.

Choices.

I'd rather be 
penniless but happy,
than overflowing with 
riches but miserable.

Much better off alone,
than surrounded by sharks
in a sea of bad company.

I'd rather be a starving artist, 
with no money for his next meal,
than withering away in a career 
where my disappointment 
cannot be concealed.

Better to be grateful 
with the little I have,
instead of blessed 
but oblivious;
no other outcome
could be quite as sad.

Crescendo.

Conceived on the back of a whisper, 
as soft as maternal breath on infant neck. 
Rooted in the innocence of schoolyard crushes, 
as devastating as grade school heartbreak and shipwrecks. 

It was the dew that dotted fragrant blooms at dawn, 
the gentle breeze that blessed the leaves with song. 
It started as a simple murmur, a tickle underneath my skin, 
then grew until it could not be contained in the house it was raised in. 

Four walls where it was nurtured, and took its very first steps, 
quickly became a prison that kept it repressed. 
Once it escaped, it outgrew its shackles, 
and set out for total world domination. 

No longer a speck, but closer to a splatter; 
a stubborn stain that would not be erased. 
It echoed through the mountains, reverberating from every cliff, 
then clapped with the thunder in the sky, 
nothing was quite as deafening.

It blared through the streets in loud speakers, 
and serenaded the cities like sirens; 
the sound amplified every time 
it bounced back and forth between the high rises. 

Like a bull on a rampage, it raged like a river, 
refusing to ever be ignored again. 
Its innocent purr was replaced by a ravenous roar, 
sure to intimidate its enemies into submission. 

Though it began like most fairy tales do with a rose, and a promise, 
it soon grew stronger from the reassurance it received from every kiss. 
When it opened its mouth, man and beast alike stopped to listen, 
trembling from the fear of ever warranting its vengeance. 

Faster than first responders could manage, 
it infected the world's nations like a violent epidemic. 
There is no manmade weapon quite as powerful as love, 
not even natural disasters could deliver such damage. 

When it is mutual, it is undefeated, and invincible as the gods; 
like the alpha, and omega, it is all some believe in. 
A force to be reckoned with, love deserves an extended round of applause. 
It started from single-celled humble beginnings but evolved into its very own universe.

Stagnant.

When life gave me playgrounds, 
I turned them into cemetaries gray, 
sentencing all signs of life to eternal decay. 

Trampled on flowers, then willed them to wilt, 
buried my brilliance beneath blankets of guilt. 

I poisoned myself until I was numb, 
safe from the specter that I'd become. 

Set myself on fires started by sorrow,
tortured by the terror of unknown tomorrows. 

Afraid of accepting that I am to blame,
averting my gaze as my future's swallowed by flames.

The inevitable can only be deterred for so long,
until it returns with a vengeance and robs my spirit of song.

The thought of progress makes my wrinkled heart race,
anxiety steals the smile right from my face.

My calm is replaced with crippling doubt,
as destiny derails turning silence to shouts.

Carnivals from my past reveal the cancer they masked, 
rotten from asbestos and littered with empty flasks.

This wasteland cannot sustain oxygen,
so I bury my head in the sand, concealing the pain I'm in. 

Corrosive; acid leaks from my alkaline pores,
yet I remain apathetic and let it pour onto the water damaged floor.

Nostalgic for the days when I used to try,
instead of this era emphasized by detrimental war crimes. 

Devoid of myself, I risk it all then rinse and repeat,
until I am submerged and drowning in the depths of my own defeat.

Burdened by insecurities that rip at me like birds of prey,
i fall apart, and fall to pieces, fulfilled as failure feasts for one more day.