Author: poetryfest

I woke up
And the world felt quiet
The sky was still gray
Like the thoughts in my head
The ground was still wet
I sat in silence
Thinking about everything I couldn’t fix
I looked outside
And saw a small bird
It was flying
Despite the strong wind
I watched it for so long
It didn’t stop
It didn’t fall
It just kept going
And I thought
Maybe I can too
Rise and fly in the face of the storm
Sometimes, hope is small
Yet, it’s still there
…..

My mother gives birth to her pain.
in every contour of my body
she shapes her sorrow
until my screams echo
the softness of her voice
and we contort into each other.

like mother like daughter

mother please eat me
consume my flesh and birth me again,
my body is cold and numb
and hunger is better than feeling nothing.

I feel her hunger in my own chest
it is carnal and quiet,
it beats the same as the thump in my wrist,
suckling and sustaining her eternity

i am the young to be eaten
the sacrificial lamb.
consume me quickly,
i do not want to stain
the newly pressed linen.

oh mother, do not be gentle

do not forsake me now.
i know i am not what you wanted
but i will lie patiently on your altar
until the return comes.

mother, please eat me

I am the daughter
to my mother
grieving the death
of her husband
helping her
empty
his closet
return
the hospital bed
complete
the paperwork

I am the mother
to my daughter
trying
at four years old
to understand
the loss
of her grandpa

When do I
get the chance
to be me?

The little girl
now a woman
who grieves
the death
of my father too

Your smile makes me cry.
I don’t ever want to say goodbye.
In your eyes I see the sea.
The only one that believes in me.
Your personality shines bright.
Almost the same as a light.
Your hugs are comforting.
You will never find me suffering.
Your laugh is blessed.
It is always the best.
It even puts me at rest.
Your smell is soothing.
It’s the one I’m always choosing.
You’re the best boyfriend.
And you’re one I’ll always defend.
Always and forever.
Until the end.

Justice,
before you rule,
Please hear me—
not as counsel,
but as one who has stood in that midnight kitchen
through her words,
through her trembling hands,
fighting for Pêpê’s best interest—
a child the law claims to protect,

yet leaves trembling.
It is not enough
when his hand explodes against her mother’s face,
the sound sharp as a rifle crack,
making the glass in its frame shiver.
It is not enough
when her cheek blooms red,
then fades too fast for the lens to catch.

Pêpê—her mother’s pet name,
whispered like a shield.
At night she lies rigid in her bed,
listening to her mother’s muffled whimpering,
each sob a small surrender.
She learns too early that comfort is dangerous,
that silence is armour.
I hear her in the pauses her mother cannot fill,
in the way fear wraps itself around every word.

She is six.
Only six—
and already her eyes know how to measure a room,
track his every move,
clutch her mother’s skirt as though it’s the only thing
anchoring her to safety.
She memorises the path to the door,
ready to run before she’s learned to ride a bike.

Do you know what it is
to argue a case with your throat closing?
To know that “best interest of the child”
is not a theory,
not a balance sheet,
but a warm bed free from dread—
and still watch the law lean to “access”
and “parental rights”
as if they outweigh
a child’s right to breathe without fear?

He does not feed her.
He does not clothe her.
He does not keep her warm.
Yet he claims the right to hold her,
to call it love,
to shape her into a silence that will last her life.

The mother is shamed as bitter if she speaks,
while he—
who punched a hole beside her face—
walks away smiling.
And Pêpê learns to fold herself into small spaces,
to call fear normal,
to believe this is what families are.

Justice—
I see her years from now,
laughing in a sunlit kitchen,
her footsteps light,
her nights free from dread.
Your choice can make that real.

You are not deaf
to her small voice asking:

“Do I have to go?”

Your gavel can crush—
or shield.

Choose her.

Carve a future
where Pêpê wakes to mornings of peace,
where only her cereal crunches.

thoughts of seeing you in my rear view
the only thing available is your scent

desires to have you in my existence
the only thing here is our past

experiences no one else harbors
the only thing left is to shrug

walking back to you, i want
my heart to stop aching
walking back to you, i saw
my heart needed more
walking back to you, i wish
nothing more than mutual happiness

growth internally in me
the only thing good is my pieces
pieces of heart broken yesterday
and everyday i live this lie

how can i ever repay you
how can i make your heart ache less
how can i find you today
how can i

two souls cross now and forever

January two thousand and twenty-five.
Lucky for me, I’m still alive.
However I go back school
At that point I feel like a fool
For all land around is just snow
And that is something I don’t know.

February two thousand and twenty-five.
My mind and stomach takes a dive
Into darkness for me to roam
And always wish to go back home
It’s when I learn I’m seasonally depressed
And it is the reason why I am stressed.

March two thousand and twenty-five.
Long Island, New York is where we drive
To have a nice and clear spring break
It’s slightly warmer, so I don’t shake
But when it ends and I’m back to school
The snow returns and acts so cruel.

April two thousand and twenty-five.
I drop off packages and drive
Back to campus until a cue
When suddenly all I see is two.
Arrive at campus yet cannot walk
Snow comes down to further mock.

May two thousand and twenty-five.
I am reminded she’s no longer alive
New Orleans her life we celebrate
She surely watches within God’s gate
Because I know where she has gone
Simply because Hell was not drawn.

June two thousand and twenty-five.
In New York City I arrive
For surgery that will heal my head
And force me to stay within bed
Until I can leave the hospital
And walk around as if I’m little.

July two thousand and twenty-five.
I’m still healing, so I can’t drive.
My memory is trying its very best
Yet I repeat what comes to my chest
My brain takes time to function again
But when it’s done I don’t know when.

August two thousand and twenty-five.
Back to school I force to arrive
For I am still young another year
And in my classes I will hear
The sounds of voices I don’t know
So why not uncover the scar to show?

September two thousand and twenty-five
I will celebrate the month I came alive
I will wear the sapphire oh so blue
I will show baby photos, too
Of me as autumn makes leaves fall
Then stay in my dorm and make a call.

October two thousand and twenty-five
My inner witch will come to strive
To decorate the place and wear my hat
Grab my crystals and pet the cat
For then won’t matter any a scene
Because all that matters is Halloween.

November two thousand and twenty-five
Then Thanksgiving will try to thrive
I’ll go home and have a doctor or two
Witness how large the pup had grew
And get attacked by all three pooches
And pray someone will save me from smooches.

December two thousand and twenty-five
Snow on the ground, but I will arrive
Back home again for more than one week
And allow my mouth to finally speak
Of all the things that are up and down
And ask old Santa for a new crown.

No words, no map, just static in my veins.
I keep questioning what I’m feeling.
Confused and lost, I reach for my only truth,
you, still lying next to me.

I curl beside your stillness,
trace your lips and paint a smile.
I press my ear to your chest
and pretend the music isn’t gone.

Just whisper that you’ll stay,
tender and soft, like the strokes
you once gave. It’s all I need
to keep from breaking tonight.

I’m terrified to leave your side,
to let my world frost over.
To walk away from this bed now,
means admitting this is the end.

I’ll spend the rest of my life
chasing a shadow of you.
A shell no one could ever match,
a shrine no one could live up to.

I keep trying to shake you awake,
but your eyes stay sealed.
I’m not sure how many more prayers to say,
or how many ago I should’ve lost faith.

And still, you’re beautiful.
Even as your skin hardens to wax,
even as your scent sours to sweet decay,
you’re still beautiful.

But the sheets grow stiff where you lie,
and the air swells with absence and flies.
I count the flies like they’re our children.
One lands on your cheek, I think it’s kissing you.

I dress myself in the stench of grief,
pull your lips to mine. “You’re freezing,” I break.
I scream until my throat splits,
but you don’t even flinch.

On this night, if I had a blade,
I’d slice my veins for the chance to reunite,
smiling as our blood braids me back to you,
a crimson thread no death can cut.

They’ll find us this way:
two lovers curled like rose petals in bloom,
one long gone, and one
who simply couldn’t let go.

Sitting beside you in the bed,
talking with you as the TV plays
on in the background—
you act like you’re not there,
yet I’m looking right at you.
You look as if you’re lost—
not knowing what is going on,
and yet you can still call me by name,
you haven’t forgotten me,
that makes me smile.
You no longer have interest
in doing anything other
than just sitting there—
but you still tell stories, though some
may not make sense.
You ask questions a lot, always
wondering why something is happening—
yet sometimes still not understanding.
You sit there, sometimes a prisoner
of your own mind— prisoner of the
disease that has begun to take over—
fleeting memories struggling to hold on.
You were a man of great strength,
in both the physical and mental sense,
but now you stay in your bed or your chair,
sometimes in a daze of confusion.
You were a man I learned so much from,
you were a man of power, confidence, and
determination— but that man has faded away.
I just wish i knew where to find him,
just to have five more minutes with you—
but I’m quick to remember all the memories
I share with you— every cherished moment.
You were the first person aside from
my parents to hold me,
how I reached out to you—
you were the one to take me fishing at the lake,
helped me build a miniature house for an art project,
taught me basic home maintenance,
introduced Spanish music to me—
it was you who helped guide me into
the man that I am today.
Only now those memories are my stories
to tell you.

Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016 but was late to
the party

A thousand weary wordsmiths cried in the winter of their years
He’s not an actual writer they appealed through their tears
Other scribes sang in a sycophantic style
If you want to know what Dylan thinks you may just wait a while

They said he was on tour today and that he could not be reached
No man is an island but this one can’t be beached
A brief mention on his website was all that did appear
When the press scrambled for a look, it was no longer here

A million fans waited in the rain to hear his word
He had chosen horse over kingdom, just like Richard the Third
No declaration from the stage as the bard took a silvery bow
The jokerman took the piss but no-one’s laughing now

Where is our Nobel Laureate? The troubadour paid no heed
In the halls of the Academy stood a disappointed Swede
Meanwhile holding back the tide like a vagabond King Canute
A song and dance man stonewalled glitter, glory, praise and loot

Is he just too cool for school like that Lebowski dude?
Or is he just plain arrogant, belligerent and rude?
Perhaps the hip he shoots from is now needing replaced
You may repent at leisure for anointing him in haste

So come on Bobby Dylan, come forth and claim your prize
No need for phoney rambles or your ragged alibis
Whether stuck inside of Mobile or down in Malibu
Get your sorry arse in gear cause this one’s just for you