3 poems, by luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal

in the mud

I can steady the rain
and still no one will
play with me in the mud.
It makes no sense.
It makes my skin boil.

I can stop the flood
and make stones soft
and still no one will
share their life with me
in the mud that is my home.

last gasp

You squeeze the seed out of life,
down to its last gasp,
its last droplet of blood,
and you take one last stroll.

Sometimes you take a drive, run
through all stop signs,
but not before making
sure the coast is clear.

You look at the horizon
looking for your next
home. If such a place
exists, you want to live there.

what is left

Madness drives a hard bargain.
How can the mind and heart

stand without falling into a
hell that has come to earth?
Where is heaven when you need it?
I only pray to end this hell.

Those who kill with words or
knives need to go away.

Take your roses to your own graves.
Take in the sun as your corpses rot.

Leave the silence to the dead.
You as well have spoken enough.

As you lay dying do not ask

death for any favors.

Feel the worms feast upon you.
They will never find your heart.

It is not there. It never was.
All you have is a bag of dust.

There is not even a soul inside.
I, myself, am not surprised.

Eternal life is not for anyone.
We are born and we die.

What is left is tomorrow
after the dawn.

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