Like A Child
People falling in love that can't be me. Love is something I can't do without you. Why do you hold out your hands?
I vowed to myself I'll always be strong, but now I'm feeling insecure, tear drops in a bottle of perfume. Lift me up let me touch the sky I want to know I'm alive. I'm like a child in the cold that shivers not knowing warmth at all. Magic wands and fairytales, read of romance at the rate Im going I will never know that feeling. Guitar strings and piano keys sing your song. Take your fingers off the music and let me taste them. Lift my eyes to the rising sun, blind me with an undying love. Im like a chldin the bitter winter I've got barefeet in the snow. I am afraid of you the love in your eyes. I need you to lift me up I can't live without you anymore. Im a child who needs you. Those Nights
I remember that night at my apartment, when we were free. We went to that part of the complex so no one could see us. I looked down, everything looked brown and grainy, and I felt your lips press against mine. While we kissed I blew my breath into you so that a part of me would always be yours. I hope you still remember me, because on nights when I sit in bed with a soft glaze of light from my lamp on me, I see your eyes, brown and grainy, and I see your beautiful lips form the words, "I love you." But I never hear them. I never feel them. And though I want to so bad, I cannot believe them. But I hope you know - when I fall asleep, I am with you, and you smile with me. You smile like we are happy. Like we should have turned out.
The sweetest thing I did
The sweetest thing I ever did Was pay for his ride home. He always came on his own, winding through serpent freeways to see me; I never even asked him. Like a salmon swimming up stream, so did he. Sometimes I really enjoyed his company -- like having a storm ravage a 90-day streak of sunshine -- good once in a while, not daily, though. Once, however, it annoyed me. I was enjoying the routines of my weekdays -- in and out of the office -- and my weekends -- sitting home with a movie. He came, and I was angry. I paid for his bus ride home. And as the steel slowly pulled out of the station, his rain-like quality seemed to disappear, and it was made more like the sparkles flickered on by sunshine.
My War
Oh, if I could only tear out my heart,
And hold it up in front of you,
It would not be a messy clump of
blood and tissue and beats,
but you could see that you are in it!
Friends, we are, but when I rise
And take my underserved prize,
You clap my back and send
my eyes reeling into frantic images
I've tried so hard to hold back
And I still continue to repress
along with bursting feelings.
I want to grab a hold of you and claim,
"We are not friends! He is my eternal dream!"
When your eyes lay on my face,
and on its surface is indifference,
Inside there is a war of thoughts,
A war in which I never ever win.
You rise and say,
"It's time to go,"
And in my stomach warships sink,
And I am on the brink of saying all,
Saying all outloud of what you
can be to me, but instead
we walk into that box of night,
And we step inside your car,
My hear nearly falls apart
and the car starts,
but I want to get out
and stand on the hood,
and reach down and take your hand
and bring you up,
and sink my face into your chest
of beauty, love, and peaceful rest,
and shout to all those closed ears
"This is what I want and have!"
But I don't,
for the hated Prufrock in me
decides not to dare
when my heart directs my hand
to your wood-brown hair,
And it says,
"Remember the girlfriend,
And the fake riddle in nine syllables."
And when we're seated in the theatre
Amidst a few more people
with empty chairs lying about,
I am glad the one next to me is filled
with a human wonder:
A knight, a hero, in white shirt and blue jeans,
To which I want to scream,
"This is all that rumbles and frets
in my heart, I'll havei it out!"
But then the doubt cloaks
My heavy feelings, and we walk out,
My mind a futile Vietnam,
My body a rigid, tired, dead slab,
If I could grab your living hand,
I could win the wars everywhere, at any time!
But still -
I can't.
Driving home, the flashing streetlights
Pass overhead and curve on your face,
forming the soft arches of your cheeks
and red bridges of your lips,
bridges which I want to cross,
shining in oblong glimmers in the dusted windshield.
I step out of the car,
and though I have not traveled far,
my head is exhausted after steering
through unpaved streets of thought.
I take my burning feelings held inside,
And while you slowly ride into the deeps of comforting night,
The red-stained fire burns inside,
a scarlet monster named
My Need to Tell You All.
Yes, I Am
Yes, I am gay.
I am gay.
I decided to be this way
When my parents decided to have me.
I was born the same way you were;
I am no different.
The sun wakes up in the morning
and shines its twirling light on my face
as I lie asleep like a bubble
blown away from the bathtub water,
as it shines on you.
And when the day is sandwiched
by the dark, solid night, and the
stars have been slapped upon
the blueness of the sky like an artist
throws paint upon a creaseless canvas,
I look up and think it is beautiful,
And I'm sure you do, too.
No, being gay is not an advantage,
and it is not a disadvantage.
Yes, I still hear the names
you call people like me, and those
you think are like me (though they're not):
faggot, queer, sick-ass.BR>I am human, and your words do hurt,
unlike the childhood saying of sticks and stones suggests;
for you are no longer a child.
You know what you say,
and when those comments vomit from your mouth
like invisible, shredding glass, they cut me.
And when you name me those name,
My blood collapses into ice,
And my eyes grip back their burning, wet pain.
I am gay.
Do not treat me any better,
do not treat me any worse.
The suns white light
still branches on my face,
and the rain
still crackles on my window,
and my laughter fills the room,
like a triumphant, liquid song.
Being gay is not bad.
Being gay is not good.
Being gay is being. I am simply being
the person I am.
I have finally flung the closet door
open so hard it has flown across the room
and broken into rags like shattered coffee mugs.
I am not invisible and my face fills your eyes.
This Poem was writen for Philip Torres. He is my first love and my last love. I love this man with all that I am and I know that we are destin to be together.
PLEASE COME
PHILIP
If, Philip, I could bring you along
and hold you like a trophy up to all,
And let you shine upon their faces
light gleaming, dancing, and embracing,
What a treasure this world would know and have!
Sitting here,
the tension avalanching
in a blaze of white in my mind,
waiting,
wanting,
feeling like one of Shakespeare's players,
All I need from you is your cooling hand set
upon the heat of my flurred cheek,
You need not even speak to make my body feel at ease!
Please, aid me -- aid me!
Be here, send yourself like a sphere of joy
rolling towards me, tracking a trail
of moist white-blue streaks
on the cold, dried streets. Be here!
And -- here you come!, as if
a bodied dream, flailing thoughts of
hot uncomfort away,
like old, crusted strips of paint --
you are here!
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