Author: SamT.Gutierrez

My name is Sam and I love art. I sometimes do podcast, I sometimes stream videogames.
Poetry · Writing

a magic wand

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i want

and that’s okay.

to behave

to learn

to wash

they teach, never to want.

i remember

a girl running in the park

only paper taped to a stick,

but her smile, something like;

a poor man winning the lottery

a musicians first time on stage

winning an academy award, while remembering your time jumping from couch to couch, eating scraps and wearing your sister’s husbands four year old shirt with a hole in the right shoulder – wearing your graduation suit, your parents last gift to you, two sizes too big, to every audition, to every job interview, to every date.

her smile, like nothing in this world, could make her happier- i want

that

Poetry · Writing

six, seven, eight

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battered ribs

shattered nose

rattling skull

the taste of blood melted plastic,

the only good thing

is the cool canvas brushing my right cheek like my mothers palm.

i want to stay here,

staring eyes like a night sky

all so, obstreperous

for frame of reference;

like the first round, no faces

no names just eyes, flashes,

hazy-

than a meteor crashed into my skull

twice

and

i

still see those stars

Poetry · Writing

re(turn) to an empty church

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they worry;

wonder where –

wonder where – they’ve gone

leader to the silent prayer

like a roach with poison.

they still love, you

carefully manufactured poison

with love, but you must

know

you’re an imagineer

carrier of this art, this message

this this this-

you carried everything, in place

not a scratch a dent

the burnt pages were dealt with care-

never questioning

never wondering

just- keeping.

you worried, they appreciated

they’re back – in silence

Poetry · Writing

silence of the lambs

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i don’t remember

what it was before

now;

chances are somethings were the same

just nothing that mattered.

i remember thinking

back then,

that i deserved what i got

if you didn’t work for it

like really work for it

than it wasn’t for you;

just not everyone gives equally

keeping you in the bottom of a well

to be mocked

to be trashed

to be reminded that they have you on a leash

and they control the slack.

i remember thinking

that those days

those days

were a peak.

they bury

you,

whether you’re out

sinking

or digging

that well isn’t for you

Poetry · Writing

return

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just waiting

by an ajar window,

listening to the flute player two floors up,

for a sign.

now;

it’s been two weeks

and the flute player is gone

window is closed and i found my lost muse.

friendship level one oh two

keeping the battle going

from an open window

thinking about that flute player and their return.