I (Don’t) Wanna Be Sedated

The bottle hits my lips
Any fight or flight action is temporarily disabled
A sort of Freudian prophecy is fulfilled
I kiss my humor goodbye
Like I’ll never get to kiss you

I feel greedy, I feel great
I feel needy, I feel nothing in this state
I love you and it pains me to say
I miss your smile and I long for your sensible touch
But I’m numb now and my pain is fluctuating above me

Yet another bottle hits my lips
And it tastes just as lonely as me
I take steady sips
I take longer gulps
But I will never be set free

I feel greedy, but oh, I feel great
I feel needy but hey, I feel nothing in this state
I love you but I forgot to say
That I miss your smile so fucking much and fuck, do I long for your graceful touch
I’m so fucking numb now and my pain flew away

I remember the words I wrote down for myself, if I felt like slipping away:
“Your sedated state only separates you from all that you love.”
And sometimes this is easy to forget…
Despite my actions, I want to remember. I want to remember my own words. I want to remember you. I want to feel you. I want to kiss your lips once more.

Tell me I can kiss you. Today or in the future.
And that will fix my hungry, lonely heart.
I don’t want another bottle. I want your soft, sweet lips.
I want you. Today. Or in the future.
And I want to remember. God, I need to remember. My words. And you.

Written and Directed by Me

Ever since I was a young kid (I’d say more towards the beginning of my teenage years), I always believed I had the magical ability to direct my life and the lives of others around. And by “direct”, I mean, create opportunities for goodness, goofiness and all around happiness for me and my loved ones.
I’ve always been the eternal romantic and optimist, and of course, I was hoping for everything to happen in the best way.

Life is obviously not as dandy and light-hearted, however, at the time, I wasn’t entirely aware of it. I have lived a rather sheltered life up until my early adult years, so I went on believing I could be a Roberto Benigni character of sorts for quite a while. I believed I could improve people’s lives just by being the silly, funny guy that doesn’t take much seriously and that goes through life in a comedic motion, engaging in it in an extremely theatrical fashion. I embodied that guy seamlessly and I suppose in a certain way it alienated me from taking existence or even life, with the earnestness and with the basic level of responsibility it also demands. I was a clown and I wanted to be a clown. I was an actor in my own life and I wanted to become one full-time. A lovely task, it seemed.

I jumped through my teenage years with the radical belief that everyone deserved to be happy, to feel truly gay, and at some point in time, I suppose I forgot myself. At this moment, if I am completely honest, I can’t be sure I actually ever did it for me. But I went all in, I committed to the character with my entire body and soul. At another point during those years, I wanted to be one of Robin Williams’ characters. I envisioned I’d be a professor Keating alike, I’d be a teacher and a guide. A daring and wise spirit. A witty human being. Willing to live my life to the fullest and assist others who wished to do the same. But you can’t live fully, if you want to become someone else. And you certainly can’t expect to give other people guarantees on how their lives will work out.

Early adulthood was therefore quite miserable, as you can expect. I realized I couldn’t play any of my desired parts anymore. I realized I’m not a director and  I am actually not in control of much. My mind and soul broke into a million pieces and I honestly thought I would not recover. It was painful and miserable. I’m still working on getting some pieces back together, if they may still belong to me.

Now, grown into a full-blown adult, I understand my intentions and my potential. I know I can’t direct or fix everything. I know I can’t be happy and fulfilled all the time. I know I’m just a human being, trying my best. I know I’m not a clown or an actor. I just am who I am. Accepting who you are beyond what you want to be is fundamental. Otherwise, you won’t realize the limits of what you can potentially be. And you won’t be able to cope with the fact that some things just don’t really happen or work out as planned.

I’m still the funny, kind and goofy guy I always rooted for in my favorite movies. I’m wise and witty and I follow my own path. I don’t wish to be another way. I’m proud to be unable to direct anything or to pretend to be someone else for all my years.

I’m happy and man, has it been a while, since it truly felt like that.
I can’t wait for the upcoming years, the next scenes in the movie of life. I’m still excited about it all. Or don’t you know… I’m still a romantic, optimist at heart?

White Dress

Wishing I was floating across the perfumed hills of a May afternoon, small wildflowers jumping up from the warm Earth, wind flying through the trees tall and tiny, sun setting lazily over top.

A white dress flows along with the breeze and with such simple ease, you wouldn’t take it for a man-made garment. Yet you would question how such beauty was to arise anywhere… but in your heart you would know, it’s how Nature works.

Everything follows a path, a trail, a journey. And now that all feels so aimless, perhaps a little time dedicated to the natural wonders of our world would offer the just solution to the complicated circumstances we all face.

Maybe just a little floating, jumping and flying. And a white dress flowing in the breeze.

Life and a Whole Lot of (Hot) Priests

I’m starting to feel like the Fleabag (a character from a namesake series) of my own life…
(Read at your discretion, the references are not an impediment in the comprehension of this miserable post.)
I suspect it’s easier to feel so when a certain time and experience comes and you begin to understand what underlies your entire life and the situations within it. And you analyze yourself to the point of serialization. And you look at yourself through the eyes of a camera, and the only other eyes you’ll bear to gaze at, are the priest’s ones.
Your priest is someone you feel like you’ve always known and you love this person tremendously, to the point of questioning your own beliefs and faith. He makes you want to drag him out of his Holy seat and have him kneel to kiss you under the Church’s main arch.
Your priest is someone that makes you laugh and become aware of how silly humans really are and how insecure, yet precious, you are.
He makes you want to rip of his pristine robes and sin, sin endlessly.
You pray people in your life will save you from your own rapture, nonetheless, you know you’ll end up burning and going up in flames all alone. Praying won’t save you, however.
You look at yourself again and desperately cling on to a look from a camera lense. But that look is only yours. It belongs to you and it’s stuck on a device pointing directly at you. It won’t change its target. And you feel chastised and the sheer agony terrorizes you.
But your priest suddenly reappears on the scene and you feel safe and assured. While, on the other hand, you feel like you want to make him have a little taste of Hell or the devilish ways you know so well.
(Oh, the unholy agony.)
You beg the priest to ravish you, but he’s already charmed entire trains of your thought. You love him to the point of utter disappointment and yet no religion on Earth will purify your soul.
You look at the camera once more and it’s still there, separating you from the person behind it. It’s still you and the lense and the red light that signals the recording.
You look back at the priest and oh, you still love him. You love him from Heaven to Hell. And in your heart, you’ve only met Hell. You know not of the purity of Heaven. You know not if it exists. But he makes you want to believe.
The priest hands you a Bible with his favorite passages marked down. He claims you should familiarize yourself with the writings you know to be of man, and expand to the divine. And you take the Holy book into your care and know you will read it all, in good spirit and faith.
You look at the camera yet again. And it’s a wall of silence.
You get home and all the readings that awaited you were pure loving poetry. But the priest doesn’t love you. But you don’t know it yet.
You take comfort in the words said to belong to the Lord. You believe. But love it is not. Love it will never be. The love the priest wants to show you is not his, it’s above him. (Or so it is written.)
The camera is still there and it meets you on your last sight of the priest.
The bus stop is empty and though both hearts in it are full, they are fulfilled by different sources. You love the priest. He loves you not. But he channels a higher love towards you that you can’t help but sense overwhelmingly. And your heart is shattered. You love him. You always did so. But he doesn’t love you.
A fox passes by alone when you’re left to yourself. And the camera leaves. And you walk away. You have the hope you’ll love wholeheartedly again, but you are unsure. You are only insecure, for the moment. Not in love or lustful. Just insecure and alone.
But you will love again. (Or you will be damned.)

Ceci n’est Pas Une Invitation

It’s quite simple actually…

Our existence is not an invitation.

Your assumptions are not a justification.

Your thoughts are not an explanation.

Your actions do have consequences, even if you fail to understand.

We have all had enough of the aggression, the lack of control or agency, the fatality of your conscious games and malevolence.

My body is not an invitation. I have feelings and the ability to consent.

You say you don’t comprehend the anger, the frustration, the million divergent ways to say and show that “no” is “no”.

But you do. You really do. You just can’t stand the fact that, finally, you have to answer for your crimes and sins.

But know we’ve all had enough. And none of us is going to be silent anymore.

I exist, and it doesn’t mean that therefore, I am an invitation. Learn it fast.

I am not an invitation. And if you do love women, as you claim, learn that fast.

I am not an invitation. No one is.

It’s quite simple actually. But you already know that. So start practicing it, too.

I Rest

Sleepless nights

Endless fights

With myself and my thoughts

And my past

What I can recall

And what I can’t when I thought I knew it all

Your face, your words

Your hurt,

My pain, my worth

All hurts

Dark circles in the early morning

Dizzy, dizzy feelings

And synaptic pulses

Shivers and muscle impulses

I awaken from an insomnia

That never shutters

Late night convenience store

For dreams inexperienced

I knew I dreamt of you

Split second of a drowsy longing

And I forgot you again

Again and again

I remembered you too

A clandestine kiss stolen in the Summer haze

There go the olden days

Sips of stale beer

And staler conversation

Dusty thoughts

Flowing in the night

Dawn light shines through the blinder

Nightmare reminder

It’s Monday again

And again and yet again

Stranger’s music comfort

Passion never reciprocated

Unrequited lusts

And isn’t it all a bust?

Grind, grind and grind a brain

It’s all for the main

Misunderstanding of the basic

Fundamental respect cracks

And love dies

It perishes with words

And actions and inactions

Dissatisfaction of the wild

The evening threatens

No, it terrorizes

Domesticated eyes

Refuse to shut

Slepless nights

Endless fights

Again and again

A memory resurfaced

And the rabbit hole calls again

The abyss looks back at me

And I allow my body to fall unto it

It hurts, it all hurts

City lights shine brighter from the inside

And yet I won’t come out

I am consumed by the abyss

Dizzy, dizzy feelings

Dust in the breeze

Light shines against the bedroom wall

It’s morning again

And my pillow craves my face

And my eyes shut

And my low heartbeat

I can’t remember much else

Your words, my worth

I question it all once more

And it’s as deep as my imagination

I can’t cover it all now

My face rests miserably

My temple pulsates

Hot and heavy and menacing

I need an hour

And I will be fine for the day

But twenty-or-so hours aren’t a thing

When the years come back for you

I try to forget

But memory still serves

Full course dinner

Dessert to keep you hanging

They don’t want to let you go

I breathe, I breathe

And I try to remember quiet

And it is fleeting

Floating in the wind

Butterflies in the Spring

Bees in the Summer

And the flowers grow and shine

And dance

And I’m home again

Eyelids and body draw down

Waters of a steady river

Cool breaths off my chest

I rest

I rest for the next sleepless nights.

I rest for my thoughts, my words and my worth.

I rest for love, for lust and for pain.

Dizzy feelings, memory, bees and flowers in the Summer.

Letter to Albert – January 12th, 2020

Albert, my love,

I find myself entirely shattered, as I sit and contemplate the last night we ever had together. I came back home today to find the usual hum of a common day berate my thoughts and I feel so ashamed.

I felt tempted to step out of the house and buy a bottle of the same brand of beer we always drunk together, as if it was a well-crafted bandage to hold the uncontrollable bleeding spilling out of my heart. Instead, I just picked up a bottle of Coca-Cola and a pack of chips, because I know how much soda make you wail in disgust. And as I write this, I can picture your silly, almost childish expression, which mixes dismay and disappointment so perfectly, and I can feel the judgment reaches my fingers, travelling from the graphite to my wooden hand.    

Our words aren’t always the sweetest, most ravishing, delicious melody we’ve ever heard. And that last night we shared proves it, down to the ultimate numeral. The simplest ideas we’ve ever shared end up turned into the most disgusting, invasive, tasteless cacophony of feelings and phrases and we hurt one another in this word-fencing game no one will ever truly win.  

I kept believing I would always be the one above everything somehow and I thoroughly believed it, even if my gut roared and raged against my better discernment. However, much like any other human being, I am at fault. And my sins would always fall under the cracks of your skin, poisoning you, until they seeped back into my body, when we touched.

The venom we spilled is as damaging as the substances we would submit to, sometimes. No amount of alcohol, drugs or cigarettes could hold a candle. But the thrills are as enticing. Our hearts pump in override, our tongues dry out in spite, our brains electrify in compensation for our lack of self-control and we lose our senses.

I sometimes feel we must be insane, as we invest such energy and time unto our verbal mind games and not enough in locating the source of all this loathing and misery. It’s always easier to project it all onto someone, rather than come to the gripping realization that we are at fault. I am at fault and so are you. And yet, neither of us was willing to acknowledge that simple fact.

We’re such passionate beings, dear, but as any lust-filled souls, we may often feel tempted to hold our fires against others and fatally eliminate the oxygen from their lungs. And while in our heads, it appears to be a mere instance of taking someone’s breath away and raising them up to our love, somewhere down the line, someone will pass. Someone will simply not endure. And we’ve been playing with fire for so long that we fail to comprehend our own mortality.

Please know I absolutely worshipped your passion. And I know full well how much your idolized mine. Particularly, my singular way of translating it to written word. I will miss the folly that was your mind, whenever you decided to speak it. I will miss the gaze you solely directed at me. I will miss the maddening intensity lurking beneath your seamlessly put-together persona. I will miss so much, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to quantify it.

Now, I hold a pencil as I write to you, because a pen can no longer withstand the realities I have to show you. And I feel like you may be compelled to remove this piece of writing from memory, or at least, from a readable source. As such, I invite you to erase this at your will. Erase this and erase me, too.

I know none of us is going to forget what we lived, so it’s considerably useless to ask you to do it… But erase me. Kindly erase me from your life.

Please know that I love you and I loved you like no other man.

With all of my love and regard,


Letter to Albert

Dear Albert,

I haven’t written in so long it’s almost heartbreaking. In the absurdity of our days, I sense the passion we have thoroughly neglected, rise in a breath of fury, like the sun after days of rain and frosted winds.

I crave your ideas and your seldom restrained touch, the books we promised we’d read together and the gaze we claimed we wouldn’t exchange. I crave your mad eyes and your unkempt hair, the Mountain-man madness within your silence.

I have been missing my words. And naturally, the words meant to be directed at you. They had been solemnly awaiting this moment. I have not been fair to either of us. My next Jack London has been resting on the bookshelf, much like our affections.

Tell me what has plagued your thoughts and your body. Tell me what we haven’t managed to realize yet. Tell me if your longing is as deep and as pulsating as mine.

My heart beats for your words, are you aware? And in the wilderness of my blue, arctic nights, I feel how I have been masquerading my necessities. And though the sun has awakened to ignite our love once more, I am still unable to show my true feelings.

I remember how you required my words to be precise, like a mathematical formula or equation, or else you would fade into your dark and void ennui. However, I now understand why…

I haven’t written in so long, it’s inching towards the criminal. And in our hearts, we have witnessed the murder of our desires in full horror. I keep trying to figure out what expression you bear on your face now, what does your body look like in its lonely expectation. Are we still each other’s eternal love or has it all perished upon our unique miseries?

I have not as many words as I wish I had for this instant. I maybe wish I had had the ability to have written this sooner. But my mood and my heart are as wild as the seasons that keep crossing us relentlessly. I hope you may one day get back to me and not just be another edition gathering lonely dust, untouched.  

Read my words and mark them. Remember me for what I really am. I am the split spark I light whenever I purchase a new Faulkner, London or Baldwin. I am the aimless energy I devote to Camus or Sartre. I am the degenerate chaos that Thompson and Bukowski proudly wore on their chests. I am the wit of Twain or Shakespeare, as I am Tolstoy’s lip bitten under utter despair. I am Poe’s deceased bride and dear Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde.

One day, we’ll get to read together and we’ll casually trade a gaze or two. Remind each other of the words we weren’t able to put down on a paper. Maybe one of our favorite authors has found the just way to write of love, or lust or whatever it is we may be feeling at the moment.

Tell me how has life been treating you, my lovely. Tell me how many sugars you’ve been adding to your coffee or how many packs of cigarettes you’ve been smoking a week.

Although I am not in the place to make any demands, I want to read your words, as I can’t hear them for the time being. It’s sunny and warm once more.

With all my love,


Bad Hombres

Idiots with big hats,
Playing as big, clumsy orange cats,
Governing their plays on democracy,
Spelling it out dumb-o-cracy.

(Philosophies foregone,
Ideals and morals told ‘Begone’.
Liberty and rights shadowing stupidities
And other sorts of inequities.)

Orange cat says ‘Bad Hombres everywhere’,
But this hombre belongs nowhere.
This hombre has a family to feed,
‘Just some dinero, por favor.’

(Economies for the wealthy,
Pilling burocracies for the misfortunate.
Healthcare and social security are fantasies
And so are housing and basic dignity.)

Quién tiene hambre,
No causa harm, hombre.
Let go of your failed prejudices!
Your mouth is hate and your hate… ‘Qué dices?’

(How are truths held as self-evident,
If evidently, they’re not for all of ourselves?
Liberty, justice, happiness or its pursuit,
Forsake it now, or follow suit.)

This ‘Bad Hombre’ tenía amor,
Pasión y orgullo traded for dolor.
Running away from pain shouldn’t become punishment,
But so it is for the establishment.

(Declarations, Constitutions and Laws
Are paper riddled with flaws.
Empty and pompous arrangements indeed,
Fulfill many Men’s Egos and Greed.)

(Quién és el Bad Hombre, al final?)

The idiot with a hat has a crowd standing,
Beside and behind him, raving.

The hombre sits alone,
Outside the restaurant, moaning:
“Dreams are not made of plata,
Pero, que bueno sería…”
And falls asleep, as tired souls eventually do.
His ceiling is the gelid night,
And the alarm clocks are the traction
Of people’s stomping feet on concrete.
Not a golden tower of self-satisfaction
And terrible loathing, incomplete
With fleshy morbidity and crassness.

Kill the egos and greeds.
Mankind needs none of such.
El hombre no es malo, solo se volve…
Or at least, that’s what some may believe.
Nature and civil,
Disobedience’s aplenty.
Kill the establishment
And its choking hand.
Let the hombre live,
He’s got a family in dire need.
Kill the idiot with the hat
Before he flees, as the orange cat.

Failed states, stalemates,
Dumb-o-cracy must come to an end.
Arise, hombre, stand above the sore loser!
(Who’s the bad hombre now?)

On (Permanent) Grief

(Immortalities that fail to materialize,

Baring unconscionable feelings

All over our overwhelmed bodies.)

Taking the time to realize

The real implications of true pain

And how they flow over generations,

Grasping misery that falls like rain,

Refusing to acknowledge their lovely elations.

Any emotions

Are spit out on drunkenly instants

Or other manipulated states of mind.

That numb is deemed acceptable

Beyond a certain time of day,

Is something you will find.

Tears of mad lack of understanding,

Words piecing together impossibilities,

Awareness plays demanding

And other charades take their rightful place.

(Mortalities birthed out onto the world,

Baring naked nothingness into our minds

And pour misfortune unto our bodies.)

You fail to place a word

To define the shadows that captivate you,

As there appears to be none.

You’ve been known to love quite a few,

Yet they all just taste dry, cold and bland.

Cry out,

And chase out

Any emotions.

Anger is not graceful,

Just you remember.

Nor is laughter,

Even if it’s a mere reflection of pained absurdity.

Tears are of mad lack of comprehension,

Made of centuries of pent-up aggravation.

And though they are ink for penned out sadness,

They are also a show for unknown strengths

That also breaks from time to time.

(Immortality is never to be granted.

We rose from dirt to be bare and feel.

Earthquakes and erosion crackling our skin,

Frost and rain to open up our wounded epidermis,

And above our eyes, stars and auroras for wonder.)