Author: poetryfest

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

The stain on the sofa matches the stain on the carpet.

It’s red wine. From last Sunday.

Monday.

Tuesday.

It’s been two days. And I can’t get it out of the carpet.

I don’t even like red wine. And yet.
There’s a stain.
It’s in my veins. Red wine rain.
There’s a stain. A stain in my brain.

Okay fine.
Technically the wine was mine. But I don’t even like red wine.

I bought it for you.

It happened in phases.
Water into wine. Flown from vine to dine.
Clear glass. See through.
Your face turned to faces.

I see you.

Cups crash. Wounds from the glass.
The wine will grow old. The carpet will grow mold.
Red wine steadfast.

My cherry-chapped lips. They go in for sips.

My blood turns to wine.

And finally, the stain becomes mine.

Another century of genetic engineers.

Medical industry? Deflated.
No white coats, no ICUs,
no angel investors looking for cure.
Hereditary illness—gone.
Disorders—scanned, gone,
archived in textbooks as evolutionary history.

Med schools? Once proud,
now museums of late-history bloodletting.
Agriculture thrives.
bulge with vitamins, glucose,
grains stretch through all seasons,
animals swell, heavy with edited muscle.
No more hunger.

HDI? Skyrockets,
and with it, our human span—
people live centuries, polished ages.

Climate change? Reverted.
Carbon-cleaning crops breathe for us.
The air is scrubbed.
The pests erased.
We engineered Eden back
we kept the factories open.

Biggest trouble? inequality.
Gini coefficient climbs like flames.
The rich buy intelligence, aesthetic, health,
ice-sculpted children in the womb.
Poor couples starve their savings,
not for tuition,
not for land,
but for a single shot in the clinic—
to make a child who can climb
without climbing.
No “social climbers” anymore.
Only social designers.

GDP per capita? Soars.
Not just from greater output—
but by decline.
The “given up” ones—
who refuse to pass themselves on artificially—
extinction.
The unedited cannot mate.
Population plunges,
but wealth per head blooms.

Entertainment Markets? Several collapse.
Sports? Irrelevant,
Everybody now designed to win.
Beauty? Obsolete,
everyone symmetrical.
Matchmaking? Another lost art,
upper-class couples already
engineered romance.
But all is not perfect:
Underground markets of “natural sports,”
muddy arenas,
lower and middle class bodies collide,
real-flesh bruises traded like gold.

Quotas for out next 100-year plan?
Construction, internet, human-resource—
whatever untouched by nature.

Quotas for Specialized jobs? Planned by birth.
Subsidies for the lower classes
whoever donate their children
to the nation’s blueprint.
Your next generation,
customized to fit
the industry which needs them most.

And so this report ends:
The future of humanity will continue to improve.
How it does
is nothing you can do.

–2225, by A Genetically A+ Official.

Don’t be afraid.
The shards of hurt
and stones of anger
are just raw minerals
to be found
and ground
and bound with love
so we might paint
something brighter,
something lighter.