Month: February 2019

mama will you

birth 5

mother will you kill me
the way you killed
all the other men
in your life?

i’m tired of playing dead,
i wanna go ahead
and try the real thing.

mother forgive me,
i’m being dra-manic,
the dreams i’ve been having,
i’m sleeping in panic,
and waking’s no picnic,
reality’s twisted,

a motherly whisper
is needed to lift this
curse i’ve been given.
since birth i’ve been livin’
in fear for the future–

so poems i write,
’bout the broken and brave,
and the bullshit and boring,
boracho y bobo,
a junkie for stories.

i hope that my words
deserve a plate, mama,
and merit a second.

a second ago
i was a good boy.
the boy who picked flowers
for his mother.
who picked hairbands
off the sidewalk
because he thought
you looked so beautiful
in ponytails.
the boy who wanted to take
all the stray cats home.

but he strayed from home,
and stayed alone
with all those voices.
the ones that pulled
at the corners of his pupils
and forced him to see
all the monsters between
the moments of Tragic.

but mama, you’re magic.
you conjure the feeling of
home in my heart
and i’m torn apart
every time that i’m blinded
by the sick, black, tar
in my stomach.

i know how you want it,
you want me to be
the best that i am,
but you’re better than me,
and there’s no joy
in being mediocre.

mama, tell me about
when i was a good boy.

“mama will you”
©Steven Cuenca


city 22

the last three years of my life have been waiting.
waiting to get out of my mom’s house.
waiting for a better job.
waiting to see if my pieces
are worth putting back together.

i taught myself to wait
in 6th or 7th grade,
with a dumb look on my face,
hypnotized by the thoughts
of food or girls.
back when the world
was simpler.

i taught myself to wait
with a straight look on my face,
sittin’ on the F train.
hypnotized by the rise
and fall of my stomach.
back when i was lonely
by decision, in a city
full of millions.

i taught myself to wait
with an apartment hardly paid
and a smile up on my face,
hypnotized by the rhythm
of the bright side, hidden
in my shit luck, bitten
by a stink bug.

waiting is the fun part,
also the worst part.
moments are a tease,
gone in a sneeze.

i taught myself to wait
staring at trees
fly by
on long car rides.

©Steven Cuenca