Create Your own Reality

“They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” -Frida Kahlo


Her crimson eyes stares at me

fighting an internal pain
that has long taken its place
upon her decrepit body
her deep dark skin 
clad itself in wounds 
from cancer,possibly
burnt skin resting upon
parts of her body
absent hair upon her crown
old age,possibly
she begin to speak
quiet and slowly
reaching closely for her bedside
noticing the noise of television
residing in some far-off place
her eyes penetrated my soul
burning within me were stories 
like hers
dreadful words of neglect and hurt
crept forth from her raspy voice
her slow stretch to retrieve her drink
the lethargic reach to confiscate another tissue
drowns me into a sea of sorrow
like a thick fog of cigarette smoke
suffocating one’s ability to breathe
her sentences become like broken pieces of a puzzle
sometimes hard to piece together
she extends her fragile hand to me
asking if I could stay just a little longer
remembering the place she used to call home
the neighbors she had next door
the husband that she had once loved
a dog that once ran through her home
her phone left upon a countertop in her kitchen
she gives me another number
one different from the day before
asking me if I saw the child in the corner
and I responded “no” in the negative
asking for me to place upon her foot her shoes
shoes that weren’t there
socks that weren’t lost in between her covers
Internally fighting what would soon become her reality
she beckons me to tell her about my family
I passed to her my camera
with the images of two people
my mom and dad
and she began talking to them
She told them her name and added
“I’m not feeling too sharp”
and I sunk further into my own reality
He is the giver and taker of life
She turned to me and told me
“Don’t be depressed because i’m not”


The sun never looked so bloody
Heating up the hell that resides in these dark and dim streets
Where yells and cries are becoming the anthem for daily life
Where homes are uprooted by the
emptiness of those that took root in
these familiar spaces
Where bullet cases are as common as the brown grass that outlines these deserted streets
As the echoes of what was lingers in the
bosoms of prisoners being held
in solitary confinement
Confined to a space that one day may be raided by those that claimed to protect and to serve
Serving up countless corpses in back alley-ways
and counterfeit grave sites
Where they will forever then remain faceless
Facing this harsh reality are families
being warned by other examples that
justice is hypocritical for all accounts

We Turn On The News and Watch Other’s Realities

We turn on the news

To only find glimpses of other’s realities

To quickly find ourselves turning it off 

Not realizing that those we see on TV can never turn off the screen

Can never change the channel

Have a brief commercial-break

Put on pause to come back to

This is our reality

This is the reality

To hear of missile strikes, drones, ad bombings brings us to tears

but only for a moment

to only go back to our lives

Eating,sleeping, laughing, and playing

For when we turn off our TVs

Their reality will always play

as regularly scheduled


A Man’s Stark Realization

Sitting there in summer’s heat

A midst grasses and flowers

He look onward

Thinking with an inquisitive mind

Watching the clouds pass by him

Birds racing to feed their young

Squirrels chasing one another to an unknown place

His heart began to feel heavy

Overcome with intense emotion

Gushing forth were pebbles of mercy escaping his eyes

One by one meeting their way along his cheeks, down his beard

Contemplating his reality

Our reality

That nothing is forever

Not the seasons that comes and goes

Not the soil that brings forth flowers

Nor the wife he recently wed

Every thing would have its fixed time in this world

Because to Him we come and to Him we returneid muslim man beard