Last year, I had the privilege of having my poem, “Soulstream,” published in From Whispers to Roars literary magazine. You can check out the poem below, along with other writers’ fantastic works. Thanks for reading.
Poems
Don’t Talk
Let’s talk of love,
Of sunsets,
And peace,
Let’s talk of roses
And romance,
And full glasses of champagne.
Let’s,
Talk of joy
And having a baby,
And windchimes,
And feasts,
And,
Well,
Anything.
But let’s not talk of hate,
Or war
Or crimson rivers;
Wounds crackling with pus,
Popping scabs,
The sizzling gashes on my face.
Don’t speak of lost soldiers with forgotten limbs.
Don’t think,
Of discrimination,
And sorrow,
And divided skin.
Don’t waste a single breath
On misfits,
Outcasts,
Or widows.
Ignore conversing about infants
Left in the gutter,
Or orphans without arms,
Or bombings,
Or fire in the streets.
Don’t mention parents
Who kill their children.
I don’t want to know
About incest,
Trauma,
And rape.
Don’t look at the spires
Constructed of bodies,
With insects crawling out holes,
And eating out frowns.
Absolutely never speak,
Of anger and sadness
And anything in between.
Why bother with illness
Of mind,
Body,
Spirit.
Forget about the times
When liberty bled.
That’s not on my conscience.
Why mention families,
Torn,
Apart.
Why speak of agony,
And brokenness,
And death?
Don’t speak,
Of suffering
At all.
But let’s talk,
About anything,
And everything,
Anything at all.
As long
As it’s not,
You.
I’ve Tasted Galaxies…
I’ve tasted galaxies of life
And death
And sorrows past feeling.
Of joy without limit
And the doubting of self.
I’ve drunk rivers of peace
And oceans of boundless wonder.
I’ve breathed in clouds of self-pity
And enjoyed the smells of meadows
Filled with unending mystery.
But I’m not you.
I will never be like you.
And even when our souls do
Touch.
I feel more distant when we part
Than before we met.
But you feel fulfilled,
Enlightened even.
Like I’m just another self-help book
On your shelf of past experiences.
Like I’m a pass or fail college course
You can take in eight weeks
And forget about in three.
So I cover my scars with a cloak of shame
As they spread down my twisted back.
And I hide my broken tears
In the lyrics I sing to the world.
You sing along,
Calling my suffering, “art” and saying,
“It’s beautiful.”
“I wish I could write like that.”
“It makes me want to cry.”
If you knew what it cost,
To create the art you marvel at,
You’d draw your eyes anywhere else.
The beauty you see
Is the mask worn by the fallen angel of who I am.
If you could write like I write,
You’d cry tears
You could never take back.
I wish you never have to cry the tears
I’ve cried.
And I’d cry them again
If it meant saving you
From it all.
But even then, inside of me,
I feel the rusted inner-turmoil of a Saint who killed his god.
Who can’t get over the death,
Cause it was a senseless pleasure murder
Disguised as a mercy killing.
All else died on that day,
The day his god died.
And I can taste,
The ever-running-tears from the Saint’s face,
As I hold it next to mine,
And I wish he could forget
When his god died.
But then,
I wish you suffered
Like I did-
Honestly,
I wish you suffered worse than I did.
Because I’m tired.
I’m so tired.
Cause every bed is a bed of thin needles.
So I stand and bite down on my hand
So the blood distracts me from my failing heart.
But when I grow tired of even that,
And the blood dries,
I’m left with a swollen, teeth-marked palm
And a heart struggling to even gasp.
Then I remember
your worth,
And take back the tar-smeared words I never said to you,
And put out the livid torch with my fingers.
Because I love-
I love you more,
Than I could ever love myself.
Days of Summer
Enclosed in his,
She mistook the bliss
For days of Summer
When the Sun was higher
And brighter, yet calmer.
Beside the One
Who gave it all up
When no one else would.
She took the pain
But with him remains.
Tell me,
Should Love ever go one way?
Because the current
Never washed my way.
The waves were my own,
And the perils, I braved alone.
She took the risk
Where there was none.
She jumped into
The Future not knowing,
The Past hadn’t received its due.
7/19/2016
We ring Liberty’s silver bell.
They sink deeper into Hell.
Freedom’s here in overdose,
While their blood is ink for forgotten prose.
Our lives are paraded, celebrated.
Their deaths are coldly stated, faded.
We pray for this; we pray for that.
They die in pain; they die in vain.
“For freedom!” we cry.
“We’re forsaken!” they die.
Fragment of Your Fiction
I’m but a fragment of your fiction,
A ballad without verse.
My melody may be stilted,
But yours is noteless.
You’re an arrow with no direction.
Why do I keep running after you?
What’s the point of a sign
If you won’t read it?
If tears didn’t show,
Would you still know my hurt?
Clouds cover,
Like makeup on scars.
What should shine through
Is only forgotten.
What keeps me going
Is lost on you.
Binge-Watching You
I’ve tried binge-watching you,
But the script is inconsistent.
Something about the characters
Is forced.
Each episode is too long,
Overly dramatic.
You think you’re a comedy;
You’re horror.
The production values are stellar,
But they’re wasted on you.
At 155 episodes and 7 seasons,
You should have ended after the first arc.
Your ratings are high.
So what?
Enjoy the attention.
I’m not coming back.
Nathanael Hueso 