remember I

peom 1


remember the nights
we used to fight?
now things are so bright
it burns my eyes
we’ve burned alive
now say good night
i think i’m ready for some moonlight

“remember I”
©Steven Cuenca

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patches

peom 2
@snapshotsteve


i got a jacket with the patches
i bought on the same day
and a table full of stickers
i bought at the same place

the person that i made
like ebony to gray
was made in just a day
it’s just a shade of gray

the people that i met
never lost or gained respect
for the person that they met
what you see is what i let

there are insects in my clothes
chew from cloth to skin to bones
soon i’ll see myself exposed
head, shoulders, knees and toes
knees and toes
knees and toes
soon i’ll see myself exposed
just a boy wearing rose colored glasses

“patches”
©Steven Cuenca

goodies

purple 8.JPG
@snapshotsteve


mix up all our goodies
and surely we’ll get sick.
we were meant to know each other,
knew it by our hundredth kiss.

by our thousandth we’re in love,
stomach told me to break up,
trust my heart less than my gut,

so i said goodbye,
you asked me why,
i told some lies,
i only cried
when i held the gifts you gave me.
the vinyls; covers full of colors
of music that we loved with.

kept in touch with you,
missed the touch of you,
Mister Color Blue
wanted lighter hues,
watched enough cartoons
to see what love can do,

so we met again,
just as friends
at a Warwick inn,

you were sleeping when
i left to get
some food to eat
and clear my head,
and neither were accomplished.

cuz a poem stung my conscience.
didn’t have a pen,
so i sang instead,
must have looked like i had lost it.

but it was the opposite.
it was the first time that i wrote
since the night that we had broke,
waited til you finally woke
to ask for you back.

and so we mixed up all our goodies,
this time without the sick.
we were meant to love each other,
knew it by our first drunk kiss.

“goodies”
©Steven Cuenca

at home

lia 3.JPG
@snapshotsteve


we’re at home
and she’s worried
’bout lookin’ pretty,

and i’m
gross and stinky,
my morning clothes
be stayin’ wit me.

my dog
will lick a turd,
and my dog
won’t even sniff me.

and we’re at home,
we’re at home,
and she’s tryin’
to stay busy,

while i’m
face first in greens
and i’m
feelin’ dizzy.

the week
was gray and misty,
but now
it feels like Disney,

and it won’t last,
it won’t last,

the grays
get grayer
the more
burnt that i get,

my mother
sends a prayer
across
the continent,

and we’re at home,
we’re at home,
and you’re still
finding purpose,
and i
can’t find it worth it,

the home
is for the workless,
your movements
make me nervous.

my ass
is really burnin’,
this seat
is like a furnace,

my eyes
are really burnin’,
computer
fries my circuits,

but i’m focused
on the skirmish,
these people
feelin’ Kermit,
feelin’ froggy

feelin’ green
about it,
but don’t be
mean about it,
leap about it,
be about it.

i don’t have
a doubt about it,
the home’s a
workweek outage,

so take a seat,
wait a beat,
we done our tricks,
the home’s the treat.

alone with me,
get flown with me,
we’re at home,
ungrow with me.

“at home”
©Steven Cuenca

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

 

imagine

zebra 1
@snapshotsteve


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.

“imagine”
©Steven Cuenca