Misconception

A poem about truth.

I

Your eyes are like knives peeling away at the order of my art, in a fashionable manner with out much regard to the tears I sing, to the screams bigger than any hurting machine aimed to the sky, who's nothing but blue all the time and going crazy for another rhyme, that tangles in the midst of the day thinking nothing is true and rather vague, too vague for our minds to steel and too weak for our minds to grasp, oh this truth, the thing we call our existence and the thing we consider to be the god of hell, the god of this world and nowhere else in this universe full of happy gatherers, like the people that once lived under the footsteps we take each and every day, of our lives, the ones we call hell, the ones we call our minds, the ones dying, the ones living and all is well, or so you think, my friend, the sky of a living hell still burns your eyes and burns the trees that give us air and the clouds that burst into blue flames that light planets on the other side of this world, the world we call our homes, the world we call our grandfathers and grandmothers, the world we see before ours eyes, the world that vanishes with the sound of singing waves, the world that carries the words spoken now into the other world through the form of the four winds, the winds we call our creators.

II

And as I drink this tea full of bliss and happiness, I think about you and your happiness, I think about your life and why I’m not in it, I think about too much too say, even to myself in this wonderful place we call home and this place we say to our minds, the place that we could only use for the time being that we live on this planet, the planet of the people of the ones that actually care and the people that want more, the people that work so much that they die and die and reincarnate into harder working people, that reincarnate into the lands as the grass, the mountains, the sun that we feel each day, the thing that is the light of this humanity that we see when we walk each day, each second that we blink, each minute that we spend with our loved ones, each day that we let pass by when we sleep, where in this sleep we see these dreams that people dream, these dreams that only we can see, like a child reaching out for a hug but no one is there, no one is present in the time of sorrow, when everyone screams but no one listens to the songs these words cry, to the tears that run through each word written down on this piece of paper that screams and screams for a phrase that only I can put down and translate with my sorrow, with the sorrows of the children running in my veins, the sorrows of blood spilling inside my lungs, with a sorrow screamed at the exploding clouds of forgiveness and love, love that I cannot recall, when all I can remember from my past are the bad things, images that have scarred me, deserted, and vanished before my eyes, those memories that once were an image but now diminished in the eyes of this world.

III

Into the minds of fulfilled euphemisms, a mind full of sorrow gives birth to an audience who sees what they want to see, to see what may seem like the truth and the desire of the heart, that what the heart desires is their thoughts to what they decide to see, to what they decide to hear and say, but to what form does this take in our minds, to see this audience as something of the unnatural, as something that doesn't live inside us like the blood running for millions of seconds under each breathe we take and each sigh that we make in front of everyone who is watching and everyone who there to take what isn't their's and the things that hurt us diminish while everyone just seems to laugh and cry with joy of the upmost entirety of this diminished life where I seem to be abstractly removed and where I seem to see what I want to see, only an audience full of bullshit, everything that they say is unreal, untrue, while all the low-riders bounce in the memory of my childhood, in the memory of all the poets who died and born in my era, in the memory of the dash that exist between America and I, because I am neither Mexican nor american but a political joke known to be a Mexican-American to the eyes of the audience I speak of before me.

IV

Oh world I cry a song!

that trembles one thousand islands

I cry a song!

that diminishes with every wave that hits the sands

I cry a song!

that no ones hears but you and the ears of the devil

I cry a song!

that only one person can change and that is the world, the unseen

I cry a song!

that the sun can hug and throw away within just one second of infinite time

I cry a song!

that makes the whales of the northern seas sing to their young and dance with the sea

I cry a song!

that makes me cringe for forgiveness and ask for more of this life that I dare not fear no more than I fear the realm of love

I cry a song!

that causes an earthquake to separate race from religion and tragedy from imagination that relieves us from our duty as human beings

I cry a song!

that only you can hear, world, that only you can hear and change with all your might held inside the complicated heart and soul that we merely touch but something we can all achieve and come closer as we speak words of the wise and words of misconception.