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/

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

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.

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.

share this truth.

- Matthew Allan Cuellar

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.

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.

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.