Month: April 2019

fake fruit

we’re just fake fruit
in a basket.
i’m the grapefruit
made of plastic.
lookin’ bitter,
lookin’ thick.

you’re the peach,
lookin’ rich.
lookin’ sweet.

look at me:

i just wanna be
fake fruit forever, me,
you, and whoever
wants their truth
on the outside;
nothing’s on the inside.

i apologize,
i look better
on my bright side.
don’t take a bite,
don’t look any closer.
i am what i look like,
not what i’ve chosen.

i am the grapefruit.
i’m made of plastic.
don’t you dare ask why,
i’ve never asked it.

“fake fruit”
©Steven Cuenca



zebra 1

imagine squeezing blood from a stone,
or mud from a bone,
or love from a phone.

imagine digging through shit
for the beautiful.
imagine finding poetry
in a cubical.

imagine being afraid
of the things that will save me,
like doctors, and church
and biscuits with gravy.

imagine your mind
raced clean through the night
and not one good thought
was produced.
nothing funny, nothing smart
nothing strange, nothing musical.

imagine finding poetry in a cubical.

©Steven Cuenca

fist clenched

Spring 1

there are holes in my mother’s house
i made with my fist clenched.
i covered them in posters
of heroes in capes and
the boots and the belts
and their outer-underwear
with hair jelled with justice
and faces that say things, like:

breathe in, count to five
breathe out, you’re alright
your hand will heal tonight
it’s over, close your eyes

i have anger problems i haven’t faced yet.
knew i had issues when i broke the girl’s bracelet;
it had all this shit that it was engraved with.

something ’bout love,
and something ’bout forever.
i was tryna pick up the pieces
while she sat there in terror.

but some things stay broken.

i’d be lying if i said i haven’t
seen that same scared face since
on different people, usually coupled by
calling me a monster or asshole,
but i’m not evil,

i just have holes in my body
i’ve covered up with posters
of villains in masks with
their weapons and holsters
and big hair, and big heads
and faces that tell me:

breathe in, you know the drill
breathe out, shoot to kill
your fists were meant to fight
i’ll take over, close your eyes

“fist clenched”
©Steven Cuenca