sjsprWriting

There are two identities to him,

one that he doesn’t even know.

There’s the easily adjusted, international citizen,

and there’s the him that I know.

There’s the multi-cultural artist,

the pensive writer, the words man.

Then there’s the man left without words,

whom, somehow, I can still understand.

There are two of him, or so, I feel;

there’s the positive, perseverant and calm.

But all I see is the pent-up, angsty,

furrowed brows and nails-digging-into-his-palms.

I know he’ll hate this poem,

and, then again, I do not know.

I see him change so quickly,

yet claim his life goes slow.

There’s two of him in my world,

who knows how many in his own.

He shifts his life so seamlessly,

I wonder where the next him will show.

There are two of him that I know,

and I’m sure you all know one too.

Here’s some facts I made him tell me,

his favorite colors are red, black, white & blue.

Bullshit, I thought, that can’t be it,

and promptly asked him again.

And there he was, that angsty poet,

who replied: navy and cerulean.

I know you’ll hate this poem,

you probably expected cultural assimilation and landscapes,

but this is my homage to you,

the you that got sick on BK and milkshakes.

The you I know has deep, stubborn roots,

that show in the cracks of your forced smile.

No matter how much you think you don’t,

they slip between your guile.

I know you’ll hate this poem,

because I know you, far too well,

and I know that you hate, most of all,

when people claim to know you more than yourself.

I know you’ll hate this poem,

but I know you know it’s true.

So get angry, get pissed, get mad,

like I know you’re able to.

So here, I made this poem,

about a Hindu/St. Thomian/American/Puerto Rican/to be continued

who hates cancelled plans, love sunsets,

and is probably glaring at me now… good.