Weekend Wordings: ‘(Sympathe)(Apologe)tic’/’Meaningless Star Stuff Reflection’

Welcome back to Weekend Wordings. It’s been a few months, but never too late to get back into it. First up is an apology poem and second is a reflection of my present life. Enjoy!


You’ve shot your shot,
but I blocked it.
No swift cross
and not catching a rebound.

Our connections been distorted
and our voices gleamed to a whisper.
I disappointed a flower I wanted to help bloom.
Fuck the personification, I disappointed you.

Our friendship that matter
gone in a orgasmic haze

And I have yet to see you again

It’s been three years and some things have changed.

Our fated paths declined,
our hearts did not merge.
I’m not a nice person.
No nice people ever call themselves that.

Maybe we were soulmates;
an old myth I swore by
before I realized dreams don’t come true
with my other soulmate still in my life.

The bench we sat on has rusted;
our brunch memory is a blur.
I fucked it up with sexual desire

and I wished that moment never occurred.

I cut off the thorns from you
and the dirt withered away.
I am not the person you thought,
I’m a dog, a rat, and a ugly display
forever cursed to not be near you.

I wish we were close friends.
I wish we had a softer end.
Even a hello is not enough.

I called you Ramona like an idiot

because I was in my mid-20’s rut.
I was a cliched fool whose
grown from the trope-ical times.

I’ve lost you.
I believe that’s okay.
This is my coward’s way of apologizing.
I’ll let it wither away.

Meaningless Star Stuff Reflection

They’ve told me I’m not good enough
and I’ve accepted this fact.

The pale skin seems to help a bit,
but the ethnicity of name shatters any illusion
of the privilege the whitest of man gets.
I’ve can’t compete with simplistic names,
those who came from money,
and ones that never had to battle
the hated looks of disgust from others.

Even then, what origin do I have
to promote myself to the next stages
of my career that won’t suddenly be invalidated?

Here’s a bisexual Mexican boy
from a broken home with
an absent father and a single mother
who became someone who overcome
the odds to get a degree?
It’s a walking cliche.

Hell, these past four stanzas are cliched,
and tired, and devoid of anything new.
I’ll put blame elsewhere and not on myself,
afraid of success due to those who surname I borrow
using their status as blood acquaintance to
take advantage of mild success.

I’m a failed actor, a pseudo pretentious poet,
a writer without a wit,
and a journalist without the perfect arm to pitch.
I’m standard issue blank space
lost in a realm of “You can do it”
and “you’ll get far kid, we know it.”

I’m brilliant, but lazy,
a dunce born from detriment
and a speck of Star stuff
meaningless in the universe of
ever-changing enlightenment.

This is who I am,
but hopefully I won’t be any longer
once a positive acceptance takes holds.

I’ll lie and say I’m good enough
and to fiction up the fact.

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