i wish my words would hurt you

i wish my words would hurt you

but they don't.
they don't have that power.
of ripping any love
out from
your insides
and into an oblivion
of dark thoughts.

my words don't do that.
they don't have the power
to make you sad, or mad
or glad, they have no power;
none at all. over you,
my words might as well
float on by.
no matter how hard I try
you go on by.
as if no worth is of them.
to you,
my words are not worthy.

they don't hurt.
they don't feel anymore.
doesn't matter,
the love they once declared,
it's gone.  my words,
they don't want you. any more.

The words that are coming out
of my heart
don't mean anything to you.
they have
no meaning at all.
for you took it with your
cowardice.
you took it, when you decided
to give up on me.
For something less magical
than the words my heart can speak.

stop giving writers notebooks

stop giving writers notebooks to write on.
a writer will write, regardless of the paper
or software.

stop giving writers notebooks thinking that's
a true gift. it's not. we write regardless of papers
and backdrops, and ink.

stop giving a writer a notebook, instead,
give them something to write about.
giving a writer a notebook is accepting
you don't know them enough to inspire.

instagram

este es mi dilemma con instagram:

que belleza la pureza de ver todo

lo que a mis amigos rodea.
Amigos, cibernéticas, o de donde sea.

instagram le mete cuando

me ensaña vistas algaretes,

o hasta lo surreal. pero de vez en cuando

amanece una foto que no la hace.

y me lo tengo que chupar.

un célfi me demuestra una mujer bien apuesta

es ella con recorte nuevo. y yo en pleno des-apogeo

nunca pensé que iba a ponerse más hermosa. pero ahi está.

42 likes y los que falten, no importante la constante,
ahi esta. ella. este es mi dilemma con instagram.
ni importa cuan lejos este, su contenido va presente.

y me lo tengo que chupar.

 

There it is again

It finally reached the bottom of my stomach,
the feeling I always get when I realize

I once again failed to "let go".

To "forgive and forget",  none of that

seems to process fast enough in my headspace,

that is, in comparison to yours.

There it is, that emptiness of

knowing I'm not worthy enough

but someone else now seems to be.
The burning that goes through my veins

whenever I see you happy, for I'm not the source

and then I realize, how could I have ever been such a thing?

There it is again, the darkness in my thoughts.

Those that don't wanna let go. Because like you,

they are not sure what they want. And like you,

they are convinced nothing works between the two of us

anyways.

But, no matter what,

there it is again.

Me seeing you move ahead,
and you forget all that was left. 

Whatever little bit of us 

was actually still there. 

And this time, I hope the feeling stays long enough

for me not to have to greet it with open arms again.

There is it again. 

For that which you cannot control

Why you fussin? 
Can't you see the whole world
before your eyes,
is blossoming?
rain trickles down
from above.
clouds pass by
quickly,
         [look, all I'm trying to say is
stop trying to control things
that are
        [out of your control
let fate run its course,
atoms explode,
right before your eyes
a galaxy combines
in the shape of
         [dust balls,
winter is upon all of us,
and there's nothing you can
do about it, nothing. So
stop fussin over things you
cannot control.
         [it stopped being cute
months ago. With summer.

render

It takes 3 hours to render a 48 minute video on Avid.
It takes 3 hours to make 48 minutes of video be perfect for tv.
It take 3 hours to render 48 minutes made out of 20,000 hours of footage.
It takes 3 hours, 48 minutes, 20,000 hours of footage and 2 assistant editors to make video perfect for tv.

It takes 3 hours for 48 minutes of 20,000 hours, worked by 7 assistant editors, 4 producers, and one writer to make an episode.

It takes
to render.

Patterns and Tendencies

INT. BEDROOM- APT. HAPPY GROVE, BUSHWICK NY  -- NIGHT

My roommate just went to go fuck her boy toy of the night and I sit here wondering what is it that I'm supposed to be doing right now. I guess getting baked is starting to manage thoughts to become aroused and a text could "make it work".  Of helping me find manners more intense than what they're supposed to be. I always overthink things, right. So.
anyways, I thought to myself one day.

INSERT TEXT: "WHAT'S THE POINT?"

You see patterns, tendencies, some would say,
of how it all might go one way. Her way.  My way.
The only way. The way it always goes.  It just
goes.

The way you find yourself waiting for another call.
A text. Some sort of love con quest,
not "con queso", because sex tends to make things
difficult. And there's no point in trying to make
something beautiful out of something that
flourished and died already.
Or so she believes.

You see, flowers die because you take them from their root.
And here lies the problem I can't compute
we all can't seem to uncover a solution
to get away. From everything that not even sunshine can re array.
A pattern of breaking from the way, the only way.
Her way.

INSERT TEXT: I AM ON HIATUS

When you see patterns, and tendencies,
you try and steer away. But flowers
in spite of Global Warming,
still come back in May.

And roots form again.
It's a tendency we can't change.
Try to remember whose uprooting
destroyed the flourished garden, and regardless,
it's a stupid tendency to think about her flowers
any ways.