heartbeat poetry

sc 4
@snapshotsteve


it’s hard to write
when you’re right
next to me,
and your heart is
thumping poetry
through the rest of me.

the best of me
can’t compete
with every beat
complete
with sleepy heat
radiating
from your chest
to your feet.

i’d rather lay
dead and dumb,
bummed out,
without a pen
in reach.
just you and me
making heartbeat
poetry.

“heartbeat poetry”
©Steven Cuenca

 

 

 

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worms

sc 2
@snapshotsteve


my stomach hurts,
it’s full of worms.
they’re screaming,
they’re cheering for me,
they’re singing,
“don’t eat until you make it,
don’t eat until make it.”

my eyes burn,
they’re full of worms.
they’re singing,
they’re cheering for me,
they’re screaming,
“don’t cry until you make it!
don’t cry until you make it!”

my flesh is falling off,
i’m picking at the worms.
i’m hungry,
i’ll never make it,
i’m crying.
they’re screaming at me,
“you never had it in you!
they’re laughing at me,
“you’ll never have it in you!”

somehow it makes them taste better.

“worms”
©Steven Cuenca

 

 

naked

sc 3
@snapshotsteve


i’ve never felt so naked before
foreign places making me sore
soaring to new places in store

stories dipped in platinum metaphor

met a four year old girl
she said, “you look like a monster,”
apologized,
i saw the flies
fly out from under
my eye lids.
i said, “little girl,
where is your mother?”

she said, “where is your father?”

i never felt so naked before
foreign places making me sore
soaring to new places in store

storming storming storming

saw the sunrise one morning,
more like,
i think i saw jesus.
he said, “you look like a monster.”
i said, “you better believe it.”
felt my gut turn to ashes,
i guess i knew i was demon.
he said, “this isn’t the last bit.”
felt my legs and my feet and
my arms go to sleep and
my head fell too deep and–

i’ve never felt so naked before
foreign places making me sore
soaring to new places in store

burning burning burning

©Steven Cuenca
“naked”

 

 

 

every Christ ever

acid 3
@snapshotsteve

i see the dog every night
and he believes in Christ

He always makes the grass so green
and makes the sun grow bright

i see my mom every day
and she believes in Christ

she always makes the home seem brave
and makes the porch ignite

i see myself singing that
i believe in Christ

He makes sure that my mom feels safe
and makes the days go by

i see them all claiming that
they believe in Christ

but they don’t need Him like i do
He tucks me in at night

“every Christ ever”
©Steven Cuenca

This Road Trip

purple 7
@snapshotsteve

this road trip better last me forever

i can never look past my big toe
after every step that i take,
but i still manage to make sure
that the now is planned out.

this road trip better last me forever

i don’t remember anything anymore,
i hallucinate now.
i won’t say it out loud,
but the shapes and the sounds
haven’t been honest,
and you are my beacon.

this road trip will never happen

moments have gained infinite importance,
so i move slowly now.
it must be the last chapter
with writings that mean to stretch
and wring out every last bit
of WHO ARE WE
before the page turns white–
it’s alright! it’s alright,

the trip never happened.

you never saw past your big toe
and you can’t plan nows.
you knew that.
you knew it and you laughed it off.
you laughed it off
and it never happened.

“this road trip”
©Steven Cuenca

 

Gold sheep Black sheep Brown

there once was a Gold sheep,
his chin held up high.
he’d walk with a purpose,
he’d walk with a stride.

i had to befriend him,
the stories he’d tell!
“hello mr. Gold sheep!”
he said, “go to hell!”

but sheep go to heaven,
and goats go to hell
and i am no goat,
so i said, “farewell.”

there once was a Black sheep,
they said, “please beware,
he moves without purpose,
he moves without care,”

but i don’t scare easy,
“hello mr. Black!”
he said, “go to hell,
and never come back!”

but sheep go to heaven,
and goats go to hell
and i am no goat,
so i said, “farewell.”

there once was a Brown sheep,
that Brown sheep was me,
and i am no coward,
you just wait and see.

i’ll go to the Gold sheep,
i’ll go to the Black,
i’ll drag them to hell,
to heaven and back!

“hello mr. Gold sheep,
hello mr. Black!
you will not avoid me,
your faces i’ll smack.
you think you’re so special,
the color of your wool.
you two can go eat shit
until you are full.”

the Gold one responded
with a practiced grace,
“hey, there is no need
to smack anybody’s face.”

the Black one agreed
with one thing to note,
“we were being polite,
a goat is a goat,”

and sheep go to heaven,
and goats go to hell.
i guess i’m a goat,
i just couldn’t tell!

so, “thank you mr. Gold sheep,
thank you mr. Black!
now, that would explain
all the manners i lack.
so, you fuck your mother,
and you fuck your dad.”

hey, being a goat
isn’t half baaahhd.

“Gold sheep Black sheep Brown”
©Steven Cuenca

especially special

A 9
@snapshotsteve

i think life’s easier when you stop thinking you’re special.

especially when you are

especially when you’re so undeniably special
that the world would need to rotate one trillion times
before producing someone like you.

especially when you’re so special
that you can maintain a sense of self
after death, and heartbreak, after cruelty of man.

especially when you’re so fucking special
that god takes the time to speak to you
in moving colors and shifting sounds.

listen around, listen to it

you are so fucking special
that none of us are;
no one can put their finger on your worth,
you were special from birth–
from the moment you stepped on the earth
with dirt tucked in-between your toes
and your lungs filled with sky blue.

you
need to do us a favor, please:

stop thinking you’re special;
life will be easier for the rest of us.

“especially special”
©Steven Cuenca