“Family” Is Relative

Speaking as a tree
I am a branch;
fallen from an old old mesquite
by the forces of nature.
I have been able to grow my own roots,
but no branches of my own.

I pretend though,
that branches around me which belong to other tress
are actually those of my own.
Or that I too, belong to their same tree.
All in vain.
For they know not how it feels
to be a fallen branch
grown into the ground as a branch-less tree.

Speaking as a body of water
I am a creek
with aspirations of one day
becoming a full running river
with rapids
and life.
I’ve only been able to collect small stones and pebbles though,
from other larger rocks
which belong to much larger rivers.

You see,
speaking as myself
I am just that.
Myself.
To me, you as a branch
belong on my tree.
You as a rock, a boulder,
belong in my river.
You are my blood
my family.
But to you,
I am just me.
Just a friend that you have chosen.

I am a slave to your acceptance,
a servant of your attention,
a begger on the streets of your acknowledgement.

“You can choose your friends,
but not your family.”
But what if your family
and you,
were never given the chance
to not have a complete choice?
What if the forces of nature
knocked you just a few feet from your tree,
only enough to look upon that tree,
but too far to be connected?

Learning your place
in other’s hearts can be hard.
Especially when you see them as your veins,
and they will only ever see you as a hair style.
Of course they would never shave their head,
but your role,
your appearance
and your importance
in their life
is completely up to them.
Always changing,
depending upon the affairs of the night
as to whether you should be worn up
or down.

- Matthew Allan Cuellar

Read much more of my poetry here-  http://hellopoetry.com/-matthew-cuellar/

 

My unapologetic self…

My heart, body, and soul seek no sort of comprehensible stability, rather preferring the incomprehensible rush that only unstable passion, pining, and romance can bring. As I walk through life my mind, unwillingly, wraps itself around any logical subject and floats amongst all intangible ideas; always aspiring for excellence and memorable acheivements it still struggles to cooperate and coexist in the same body as my heart and soul. I am often left, being observed as a fool and a trickster. I cannot honestly say that I know what I am doing, anymore. All I am definite of, these days, are my name, my talents, my vices, and my passions, and these things are all I can offer to you, and the world, at this point in my life. And I am okay with that.

 

Some Thing

Here I am
to remind you;
mind you,
of a few things that might bind you
blind you,
find you – when you least expect it
and all I ask is you respect it
for it’s never perfected
the art of living
living art
there are many things out there
that don’t belong in a shopping cart
and all you can do
is do your part
to spread the word-
be that little bird,
absurd,
I know
but only we can hope to show
hope to glow
and pave a way
we are all in it together
each and every day.
You want the point,
I know,
but it’s always so hard
to just say “here I go”
with out facts and examples
some laboratory samples…
but I cannot do it alone.
Just keep these words in mind
let them circle and mix
they will settle with time
Yours
Mine
Ours
theirs
art
love
care
and compassion
listen
learn
live
hug
open
mind
down with time
shine
share
give
help
wine.

http://hellopoetry.com/-matthew-cuellar/

 

I Pray The Poetry; My Soul To Keep

I will write to you
as much bad poetry as I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.

I will write
to myself
as much bad poetry as I can
to make myself smile
and still feel like a man.

I will write to you
more bad poetry
and deliver it with a kiss-
as many kisses on you that I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.

For my man-hood
is not measured by the inch,
or by hair to skin ratio,
or by word choice,
or by other’s admission.

My man-hood just simply is,
as am I,
and I will write bad poetry every single day
up to the very hour
that I die.

 

Just in the now

(not in sorrow, just in the now.)

Here I am
just broke;
spending my last amount of change
on coffee and cigarettes
in hopes of creating something
out of the nothing that I own
that will take me up
like an angel
to the life that I dream about
but don’t even remember anymore
because sleep is a memory
three days distant.

I’ve wasted my time
on thinking of how else to waste my time
in even more hopes that the time
will bring more creation
of the anything
that I dream of
coming from anywhere.

I create dust from my skin
watching it flake off
and collect on my books
that are there to inspire
but as of late,
do nothing but taunt.

The dreams,-they haunt
all of them just memories
of love poems
inspired by my own pining
fueling that insatiable lining
in my heart
that soaks up my emotions
like a tape worm
only for the left overs,
the waste,
to dribble off of my bottom lip
and and land on a paper
whos destiny is
a crumpled death
with a burial in the trash can.

 

Faith

Religion is great, in that it instills hope and faith while (usually) teaching moral and ethical values that are important to successful human interaction; bad in that, like love and drug abuse, it creates obsession and delusions along with pride and narcissism. The only true medium is learning one’s own abilities and realizing that any true creator can only ask cooperation, prosperity and joy of it’s creations.

share this truth.

- Matthew Allan Cuellar

 

One

Go!
Find me a word.
A mono-syllabic word.
A word that is as independent
as a lone tree in a field,
the only shade around.

A word only modest,
never narcissistic,
that cannot bring pride
to the reader or writer
(as the word has the only right to the pride.)

A word that is self-specific
that cannot be mis-read
or mis-construed.
A word needing no explanation.
A word that is not an object;
neither a noun or a verb,
but always the subject.
A word so strong ,
yet always softly spoken.

A word that may float forever
when muttered aloud
that brings courage and inspiration
while you keep your feet on the ground.

When it’s found,
I’d like to be that word.
Your word,
my word,
the world’s word
with all of it’s traits,
and known by nothing else.
That word will be me
and I will be that word,
and when I die
it should be the only word
written above my grave.

 

New Right Hand

My right hand
-the dominate hand
-the right hand; correct.
Has been the wrong hand.

I am cutting it off,
severing the nerves.
For it has failed me,and failed to be
the proletariat hand,
the hand with moxie and avidity,
leaving me with no more ideas,and I am growing myself a new one.

And though I shall be
with out mobility
for just a bit of time,
the new hand will be worth it.
New
and born with everlasting vigor at the zenith.

…For it will have:
the grip of a king
the prowess of a master artisan
and the dexterity of a seamstress.

 

Amphibolies Wonder

Hitch a ride with me,
Jump on my shoulders
and lets take a journey,
between the lines
and through the amphibolies.
Down onto
that blank spot on the page
so that we can write our own stories
and make our own lyrics.

Our skin against the paper,
and the paper against our hearts;
amphibolies will wonder
and fate will be left guessing.

 

The Embrace

You are not the Blue-jay:
Obnoxios
and chauvinistic.

You are the squirrl:
friendly
and frisky.

You make me wish as though
I was a cat,
so that I may
pounce upon you

And when the moment comes
turn back in to a man
and then

not be remorseful
of the release,
but ecstatic
about the embrace.