Secret."Do you want to know the secret to life?"
he taps his finger on his cigarette to drop the ash. He looks into your eyes as thick smoke escapes his parted mouth.
you glance down at the table. His stare is piercing.
"Embrace the possibility that you're not even here, that this is all a dream."
You keep your eye on him as he leans in closer…
"Now release the presumption that it is your dream."
He gets up and walks away. You stay seated watching the smoke rise from the still lit cigarette in the ashtray.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Passing Through.Dying may be the biggest adventure yet, Peter Pan had it right all along.Passing Through.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We weren’t scared of being born were we? Perhaps we were, perhaps we were frightened about forgetting it all, saying goodbye to it all, and starting something new.
It was beautiful wasn’t it? Being born…so much new found love, new family and friends, a whole brand new world, just for you. So much unfathomable beauty present in the entire process, no wonder new mothers are radiant, the love is pouring out into the universe.
Our eyes start closed and end closed, it’s too perfect a cycle to be anything negative. All we have is a few blinks in between–– to see as much as we can, so we can reminisce in the dark, while we wait for the light once more.
What can be sad is the way it can happen, and what is left behind, the permanent attachment to something transient.
––Although, what an adventure it could be! What an experience! I think it’s safe to say, it would be
In Their Shoes.Everything and everyone we encounter is an iceberg; only the surface is visible, and what lays beneath is an unknown story, within a story, as a result of a story.In Their Shoes.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We may see someone walking down the street, and immediately have a watered-down idealized image of them, in their room, doing whatever it is that they do, in their skin, with their experiences behind them, and their world in front of them.
We can empathize with others in a general sense––
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be another?
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to wake up as a random passer-by?
We have an image of what these people are like behind closed doors, when there’s no one around, when they can just be. We interpret these imaginings as beautiful, as interesting, as different, we romanticize the idea of them. We know we’ll never learn the steps to their tune, just as they’ll never dance to the beat of our
some things do not last.like a black hole,some things do not last.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Mental Disorder DinerWhy hello there miss.Mental Disorder Diner1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Welcome to battered and scarred restaurant,
where disorders are over cooked, raw or however you like it.
Would you like to start with our appet…. I mean anxiety disorders?
I'll start off simple with panic disorder,
while being a simple dish, it has a bad after taste of fear.
You can taste the fear from here.
Next up we have our social anxiety disorder,
This disorder is on back order and
too scared to show up to the meal sometimes.
It does however come with a side of sweat
No, not your style?
PTSD is our special appetizer of the day,
because it only trusts on some days
and comes with flashbacks on the side.
Next we're on to our specials, considered the hardest disorders.
First is bi polarity, which will take you through a number of sensations.
from sad blue to normal grey to euphoric high yellow,
Schizophrenia is a unpopular one of many,
the hallucinations are controlling and over cooked.
A bit too difficult to chew?
Our main courses are eating disorders.
The way your sound looks tonight.The sound of laughter looks like a messy hand written love note, it’s all over the place, it’s full of emotion and it’s memorable.The way your sound looks tonight.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The sound of laughter looks like a double bed after a night of love-making.
It looks like birds wings feel on our fingertips,
It looks like eyelashes feel on our cheek,
It looks like shards of light, hitting wooden floor boards on a Sunday morning.
It looks like you, when you let go,
It looks like them, when they’re free,
It looks like the world from space, then suddenly zoomed in to where you are, jaggedly.
The sound of laughter looks a lot like water cascading over different sized rocks, dropping heavily into a waterfall, and ending as a placid lake.
The sound of laughter looks a lot like flesh-bound-castanets, being played by the wind; during Autumn sunsets.
It looks like a balloon, flying into a kite,
It looks like a kite, deciding it’s a cloud,
It looks like a cloud, becoming water,
It looks like rain, washing away the pai
You should have seen all the people crying.You should have seen all the people crying.You should have seen all the people crying.2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
When the announcements came on,
that Monday morning, a terrible silence had befallen our tiny school.
The voice over the intercom was shaky, not her usual cheery self,
she was careful with her words, because the weight they carried
would be the rock that destroyed the silence.
She said that you had died, that they had found you in your room,
with cuts plastered on your wrist, and your head down slightly,
just enough to see your vacant eyes.
The prayer was a eulogy, filled with specs of your life,
filled with details of your minimal successes,
but it was you all the way.
God, you should've seen all the people crying.
And they were people you would hardly expect.
Be it the somber eulogy, or the thin film of melancholy that had descended upon the classroom,
by the time the girl clicked off of the intercom, the classroom was a school of muffled cries.
Or distant stares. Or hidden smirks.
The girl with the face made of makeup, t
What It's About.It’s not about the most beautiful person you’ve seen; it’s about the most beautiful person you’ve looked at.What It's About.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It’s not about finding the person with the best stories you’ve heard; it’s about finding the person with the stories you’ve listened to.
It’s not about finding the person you’ve touched; it’s about finding the person you’ve felt.
& It’s not about finding someone you would die for; it’s about finding that someone to live for.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
MaybeShe turned around, and staring at the road behind them she whispered, "Maybe nobody will walk in our shoes because they can see our road. Maybe it scares them too."Maybe2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Hide or seek.The vastness of opportunity, is infinite. Opportunities are what others are too afraid to do, what others have not yet done, what has been given up on, open spots in the lane of life. We spend so much time doubting ourselves and our potential, while persistently patting ourselves on the back for accomplishing mediocrities that anyone could do. We diminish ourselves, we limit ourselves, we contain ourselves within confines that are entirely self - inflicted, because we’re too scared of what could happen if we actually get what we want.Hide or seek.1 year ago in Philosophical More Like This
Fear dulls down your light, it feels like life holding you at gunpoint –– you can’t run, you can’t move, all you can do is surrender to it’s will, and hope that there’s no bullets. Hope is weak, hope is for the hopeless, hope is what you’re left with when you’re too paralysed by fear to make a decision, and act on it. Hope is an easy word, it’s lacking depth and it’s a fall back sentiment.
RemainThere is a time and place for allRemain1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
A time to rest, to climb, to fall.
If you embrace
Purpose and place
You’ll find within
An inner grace.
A tranquil skin
To hold you in.
To grasp the end
As we begin.
The ego’s coat must be shed
It blurs what truly lies ahead.
It sinks its knife into your soul
You, yourself drip through the hole.
It lasts as long as you allow
Set it free, and find the Tao.
What will stay forever more;
Our nucleus floating back to shore.
We shine until we self implode
We linger on; a dulcet ode.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Deux ex machinaMaybeDeux ex machina2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you should start being more
honest with yourself.
You will never be a
a sunspot on the
moon; only fallen
heroes belong there,
and your life wasn't
pitiful enough to
cavort with the stars.
The gods love a
good tragedy, but only when
they're the ones
writing the playbill. It
isn't any fun when the actors
forget their lines and
(better draw the curtains
before the performance morphs
into a comedy)
You say "I'm sorry" but in
reality the only thing
you're apologizing for is
leaving before the show
ended and reading the
wrong horoscope that day.
Streetlights, Not StarlightI make my wishesStreetlights, Not Starlight2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on illuminated streets
under starless skies
painted an abysmal black.
Fraudulent counterfeit lamps
glow brighter than the real deal
as long as they stand
within arms' reach
and eyes' sight.
Whilst emitting their deceitful luminescence,
these too-good-to-be-true stars,
so close to us,
mask the glow of those they imitate
with the dazzling daze they produce,
and it sadly seems as though
most of us accept these fakes.
So, under starless skies
painted an abysmal black,
on falsely illuminated streets
is where I speak my wishes;
I wish I could see
those stifled stars again.
What do you wish for?
The Radiant BrokenLovely one...The Radiant Broken2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
...stop breaking yourself into
these tiny little pieces that sparkle and shine.
Splashing down from your tentative pedestal,
to shatter and sweep forward in glittering filaments.
Don't you know that each fragment is precious?
The world could drown in your scent...
...swim through your voice...forever.
Your laughter sends souls into paradise,
rising unfettered to the heavens.
Yet you take that pretty little heart,
and you smash it to dust...
...watching your essence disappear in the corners.
Those fingers crumble into ash,
your smile falling like so many gemstones catching the light...
...please stop hurting.
Stop shattering and mend,
so we both might be whole again.
Am I Not Human?I came from my mother's womb.Am I Not Human?2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I fed from her breast.
I spoke my first words
and toddled unsteadily on the earth.
I read my books.
I learned to write.
I made friends who
I thought would stay by my side forever.
I had my first crush.
I had my first heartbreak.
I've been pushed down
and told I wasn't worth the life I was given.
I have cried my tears
and opened up my skin.
I know I bleed
the same colored blood as you claim to.
I have fallen in love.
I have fallen out of it.
I have found music
whose words mean everything and nothing.
But everyday I am told
I am disgusting.
Everyday I am told
I am monster.
My tears fall down.
My blood is red.
My flesh is a shell
that holds my weary bones inside.
So tell me,
you who came from your mother's womb.
You who drank the milk
from her breast.
Explain how I am lesser
when your blood runs red,
your tears fall down,
and your bones are wrapped inside.
How am I less human
when you are the monster
comparing what we are made of
and what we hold inside?
Between You and MeIf I had a screwdriver, I’d construct a city above the clouds and kick back.Between You and Me2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When God tilts his chalice, I’ll be waiting for the other shoe to drop,
and watch as my socks keep dry while everything is turned to pulp.
I’ll send down rescue origami pigeons with a key and a pair of wings,
in exchange for the other side of the coin, a parable, and a lullaby.
And if that angel’s harp is broken, I’m going to throw down a shovel…
…along with a hymn to sing you asleep and put you to bed.
If I had a sledgehammer, I’d put a hole in the wall 20,000 leagues under the surface.
When the devil Houdini’s out the cuffs, I’ll be waiting for hell on earth to freeze over,
and watch as my skin keeps warm while I pour gasoline over the flames.
I’ll send up a rescue ball and chain without a key and a pair of horns,
in exchange for a chance to pass by on the other side, a parable, and an alibi.
And if that demon’s possession doesn't work
Something's.A little boy sits in his room thinking. His feet dangle over the carpeted floor and he looks pensive and confused.Something's.2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We will now go inside his mind, to reveal his thoughts. Ready?
**How am I here?
Where did I come from,
I feel like…I…
Where… am I? Who am I, really?
Where did Mama come from?
Where did her Mama come from, and hers? and hers…who started it all? How come they could start us? are they magic?**
His door is knocked on, and it snaps him out of his daze. He see’s his mother, coming towards him wearing a smile––
Hi honey, how was school?
Where do we all come from? *pause* I mean…I know I came from your tummy, but the first ever Mama, where did she come from?
His mother smiles even wider, and sits down beside him staying silent for a moment, choosing her words.
We will now go inside her mind, to reveal her thoughts. Ready?
**Oh how he reminds me of me at his age! Should I tell him the truth? that I d
Yeah.Yeah, I've got some problems––let's call them, endearing.Yeah.2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Yeah, I've got some fears––let's call them, quirky.
Yeah, I've got some faults––let's call them, charming.
Yeah, I make some mistakes––let's call them, character.
You can romanticize it all you want, I'm still fucked up
––but hey, that's personality.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
paroxysmiparoxysm2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
let you hold me
While i break down every wall
That actually held you more close to me
Than separated us,
Will it make you feel more of a man?
I can see the cracks hidden underneath your veins,
And the shadows they bring with them.
You were more damage than I could handle
But it didn't stop me.
We both wished it did.
SelfI’m afraid of being afraid, worried about feeling worried, and anxious about my anxieties.Self1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Confusion, confusion, confusion, sense.
Losing self while trying to gain my strength, finding nowhere while trying to escape my somewhere.
Smiling only to end up wiping away my tears.
Crying only to end up intensely inspired.
Writing to let my soul drip ink; over pages as I blink away the ache falling from my eyes.
Feeling so alive, feeling so untouchable, feeling like I can fly.
Cowering into a corner when I’m what scares me most.
Holding my hand out until I grab it on the other side.
Confusion, confusion, confusion, sense.
I blossom, only to shrivel up, I shrivel up, only to blossom. I live only to die, I die only to live.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
relying on your profession to make you bravethirty-six hour days and poorly brewed, gelatinous coffee pooling in your belly does not mean that you are a poet. the act of pulling on gloves and pressing your hands into a cold, stiffening cadaver does not mean that you are closer to god and therefore more capable of reaching others with your words. all it means is that you're dog tired, your eyes are red raw from over-blinking and your slim, pretty hands are shaking around that discoloured lung as you struggle to push vomit back down your throat; it means that, when you get home and tear out your notebook in a rush driven by sleep deprivation, you're nonsensical; it means that, when i stumble into bed at night and think of the words i've read today, i don't think about yours because they're as empty of life as the silent cadavers you tear apart. and i don't know about you, but none of that sounds particularly grandiose or poetic to me.relying on your profession to make you brave1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Midnight Thought ProcessPerhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.Midnight Thought Process2 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judge others in life, and we keep track of others by categorisation.
Perhaps we should forget what year it is, and what we are…and just be.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
It's Burning Down Anyway"You shouldn't play with matches," she said. "You'll hurt yourself."It's Burning Down Anyway1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I lit a cigarette - with a lighter - and remembered Annie Venter telling me that in the eighth grade as I lit matches behind the school. I had stared at her and lit the whole matchbook on fire, and then I had dropped it in the grass. She made me stomp it out.
I stood on the porch of my apartment, listening to the rain and staring out at the fog and the clouds and thinking that somewhere out there, Annie Venter was probably sleeping, not thinking about the time she told some stupid kid not to play with matches. I flicked the lighter on and off a few times to see if it would feel the same way the matches had all those years ago, but it didn't.
The smoke curled above me in the cold air, a visible metaphor for addiction as it hung off me. Everything in my life smelled like that anymore: like ashes.
I dropped the cigarette on the deck and I stared at the small red ember, letting it burn and smoke, letting it become
Ashen DiaryShe wrote everythingAshen Diary2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in that old diary of hers,
always smelling of tangerines
looking torn and beaten
from all the corners and crooks
she's hidden it in.
She shoved hours of every day
between the cracking covers
of that book,
hoping to save them for the future,
when she'll no longer be able to remember,
incapable of reliving her past.
Pouring out her soul onto the pages
through the tip
of her black sharpie,
recording her life
minute by minute.
She didn't know
that putting her life on paper
would take the life
out of her.
I didn't know either.
And now I would kill
to read the her hidden behind covers.
I'd die to read the her
who opened up over the pages.
WorthI balance the knife in my hand,Worth2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
feeling the weight, gripping it tight.
Unworthy of life, unworthy of love:
is it worth continuing the fight?
Everything I think I know
is proven to be a lie.
I cut my finger on the edge;
with one more cut, I can die.
My life is unnatural, a deception,
and a farce worthy of satire.
I feel that my deeds will go unnoticed
in the long run when I retire.
I have left no lasting impression
on anyone who knows who I am.
I will leave as I came in to life:
slaughter given to a lamb.
A mess of red will be all that's left.
The air will escape my lungs.
I may smile the way my grandfather did.
I may be nothing more than a ladder's rung.
Once I'm gone, people won't have to care
or worry or fret about me anymore.
They won't have to think about me as good,
as bad, as a person, as a whore.
Do I die for the betterment of the world?
Do I die for selfish reasons unknown?
Do I take my life to fertilize a doomed planet,
which will become desolate and overgrown?
Whatever my rea