Get The Sensation of You Coming Home

Like a lamb taken to slaughter.

I'd imagine that's what it would look like, anyways. If it were a cute little cartoon lamb. Big, tear-filled eyes. Long, sad face. Face red and blotchy from crying. Being dragged slowly by a tight rope around it's little neck to the final destination. At some point it may have tried fighting it, pulling on the rope...running the other way. But now it simply walks towards the end, defeated. It no longer can avoid the execution to be passed on this life. So, the little red-eyed lamb with the tear-stained face simply walks, staring blankly ahead. Selfless.

What happens when you want others to see the light you see...but they can't?

What happens when you fight tooth and nail to protect what's yours...but in the end it simply wants to go on it's way?

What happens when you understand, there is no full happiness in life...and you accept it and work your way around it...but find yourself doing it alone?

What happens...what happens...I don't know.

I do know this. It is 3:00 a.m. again, in my world. It is so sad, to think of a life with no sun in it. Of a lifetime with no one there to hold your hand. Of love, without someone there to share the other Twix bar in the pack.

It's all so very, very sad. Especially when the lamb was so happy skipping around a flowery meadow...a few minutes before the rope was tied around her neck.

Leave Me Hanging

I am here.

I stare you in the eyes.

I have my voice.

I am not afraid to let it be known.

I don't fear expressing my love.

My need, thoughts...devotion.

I take my steps proudly.

I do not hide you or myself in shadows.

I am not ashamed. Of what is.

You see, I proclaim my allegiance to the world.

I preach my love to whoever will listen.

I embrace my life

and what now is,

with no regrets.

But every day, you lurk in shadows.

Every day, you tip toe back and forth...

...back and forth.

Stop and go.

Free or hide.

I take the leaps, I look stupid.

I take them. It's my choice.

Even if you're not with me,

against the world...

I refuse to lose my voice.

-Yari

My He[Art] Story

The receptionists were whispering back and forth about what their plans were for the weekend, and somehow the conversation turned into how the younger one met some Puerto Ricans at a club the week before...and they talked funny Spanish. I kept my eyes glued to empty spot on the wall in front of me, but couldn't help smiling at that last remark. "I didn't even think they were Puerto Rican, they looked black! Did you know Puerto Ricans look like black people??", she continued telling her co-worker. I looked down and suppressed a sigh, with a grin on my face...wanting to walk up to the desk and mumble "Yeah, and we look white, too. We're eeeeverrryyywheeereeee."

Just then, I heard: "Yar...it...za?" being carefully called out by a guy standing at the end of the hall. Slowly, I made my way to his side, where he stood in his black scrubs and brand new tennis shoes. He shook my hand, and told me to follow him to this room that smelled too sterilized for my comfort. After the initial triage, and the 'cool hat' comment towards the end, my new friend John gave me a run down of how the stress testing and other testing were going to go down. I nodded, and offered an 'ok' where I thought it was needed while looking down at my shoes. He paused and asked if I was sure I was ok, to which I just gave a weak smile. He handed me a gown and asked me to let him know when I was ready, and that he'd take good care of my t-shirt and guitar pick necklace.

A few minutes later, I was laying on my back and he adjusted his glasses as he softly gave me a run down of what would happen next. He kept apologizing for how cold the alcohol pads where he was cleaning my chest and stomach with, and as he prepared the area around my collar bone he made a little double take and said "Hey, that's a tattoo!" I laughed nervously and said "It's okay to rub alcohol on it, it won't come off. Go at it." He let out a small cackle and shook his head. He quietly kept prepping my torso with really, really cold little echocardiogram stickers...then cleared his throat "So...music? The tattoo? The pick necklace?" and looked up at my face. I told him I liked playing guitar and well, loved music in general. It was a big part of my life. He smiled and said "Real guitar or Rock Band?" I answered, "You're already putting cold goo on my chest as I'm uncomfortable being fondled by a stranger...and you're finding new ways to make me dislike you?" He laughed and apologized some more.

He goes to the treadmill and looks over at me saying "Alright Rockstar, hop on. Also, are you from around here?", he asks as he looks over my chart one more time...I whisper back "Nope. Moved here 7 years ago." "Where from?" "Pennsylvania..." "What?! Pennsylvania? Are you from there?!" "Nope. Puerto Rico." "Holy hell you're Puerto Rican?" "Yes." "Talk Spanish to me!" "No." "Oh come on! I need to hear it. I need the accent. Say anything!" "Anything." "Don't be a smartass, Rockstar. Come on. Dime algo en español!" *sigh* "¿Que te parece si empezamos este examen y dejamos las pendejaces pa despues?" "Oh wow that was awesome!" "I just told you to get this test over with already and we can chit chat later." He laughed and started the treadmill as a second tech walks in.

The old lady walks in and immediately comments on my tattoo, showing me her faded one with a few notes on it too. I nervously pull my gown up, keeping up with the treadmill and tell her I got mine recently in Marfa. She goes off on how she loves the whole art scene in Marfa. "Not just the fancy painting kind, either"...she goes on..."But the poetry, they work textiles, music...so much life in such a little place". I tell her I'd love to move somewhere like that...or San Antonio. Where I can really dive into different scenes of what makes me happy. Writing, poetry, painting, jewelry making, photography, music...oh the music. I feel myself rambling as John interrupts, "You do all that? Really? Do you have stuff I can read? Paintings I can see?" "Well no...not really." "Liar. Show me." "No." "Come on...you're Puerto Rican. A musician. A writer. God knows all that other stuff you said. You're an artist stuck in Odessa!" *sigh* "Wait she's Puerto Rican?!" "Yeah born and raised there, Glenda!" "What on earth are you doing in Odessa, girl?" *sigh*

The doctor walks in, cranks up the treadmill and asks "Who's Puerto Rican?" "She is! And she plays guitar and writes and takes pictures!" "What are you doing in Odessa, Yaritza?" *siiiiigh* "I got married to someone from Presidio, so I moved here. Been here ever since." John says "I dated someone from Presidio once. What a horrible place." Glenda says, "Presidio? There's nothing there but sand and a Stop sign!" The Doctor says, "Presidio...from Puerto Rico. You got the bad end of a deal, young lady." I take a deep breath and with a big smile ask, "Can we drop the subject guys? You all really are putting in a great mood for our first date. Really. I'm wooed by you all." They all laugh and leave the room one by one...

John stops the treadmill after I signaled that I was done. He laid me on the bed and jabbed stuff around my chest and under my left breast trying to get a picture of my heart. He said "I'm sorry if this hurts, I'll be quick." I said "That's what he said..." and he just gives me a look that was between disbelief and trying hard to not laugh as he was doing a procedure. "Do you always have to make a joke, Yaritza?" "Yari. And yeah, this is already awkward. I might as well lighten up the mood." "That's true. Where do you work?" "Hospital. IT." "A nerd too?! Do you wanna hang out sometime? Grab lunch at the hospital?" "Eh...heh. I'm kinda busy all the time." "You blowing me off, Rockstar?" "I'm taken, heart boy." "You're too smart for your own good." "That's what my momma always said." "Ok, get dressed. It was nice meeting you, and I hope I'll see around soon!" "Wait...like you hope I have heart disease and I have to come here often?" "No no no! Stop twisting my words! I meant like...around. Not here. God. You're a pain." "Nice meeting you too, John." "Bye, Yari."

I strolled out of there and he walked me to the front desk, giving me half a hug.

I looked at the art on the walls. It was pretty. Marfa pretty. My heart felt good.

What I Wish I Had Told You - Pt 5

There's mistakes...

and there's MISTAKES.

You were the latter. Although at least through you, I've gained more in my life than I ever thought possible.

Where do I begin with you? The thing is...I wasn't even going to blog about you. I was going to write it off as a lesson learned in life and move on. At some point up until very recently, I even thought I could stomach being part of your life again. If only...if only...

You see, dealing with you is like dealing with a stupid kid that lies about even the smallest of things. Just for the sake of lying. Because, surely you don't think the people around are STUPID enough to not see right through you and know exactly what you're doing and with who...at all times. That's the worst part about you, I think. That when you get caught in a lie or doing something wrong...you sit there with this retarded look on your face...like someone's talking Chinese to you and you just have no earthly idea what could possibly be wrong or what you did. It's maddening. Really. I've never wanted to beat someone until they're spitting up blood, curled up on the floor like the little pussy they are...like I've wanted to beat you.

Or maybe, just maybe, what I hate most about you, is that you feed everyone you meet this sob story. Trying to portray yourself as an honorable man who's put a lot on the line for the rest of us. Pretty much making up a fake persona in your head...that's nothing like what you really are. A stupid, dumb, idiotic kid who is ungrateful and cruel. A kid who wouldn't know what a rough childhood is. Sure, you had MINOR family issues...but don't we all? Don't all of us go through traumatic things and at least try to come out victorious in the end? You use mommy and daddy telling you what to do as a kid as an excuse to do vile, disgusting things to others. To people who have done nothing but back you up, through the hell you've put everyone through...in the end they're still there. THOSE are the ones you hurt, neglect, disrespect...I need to stop. Because there are no words for how low you really, really are.

To think that at some point I wanted to be in your life forever...that I wasted so much energy having faith in you, listening to you, loving. Love. You took from me things I can NEVER get back. I gave them whole heartedly to you...and it was your DUTY as an HONORABLE man, as a GOOD person in general...to not accept them, to be honest, to be a man.

You are not a man. You are a boy. You're a monster. You're a liar. You're a cheat. You're nothing but a whiner. Woe this. Woe that. People would kill to have the kind of chances you've been GIVEN in life. GIVEN. Handed to you. Without you having to do anything back but appreciate it and make yourself a better person.

Why did I write this? Because for a split second, I had hoped that maybe cutting you out of my life would have shown you that there IS such a thing as consequences. There IS such a thing as ENOUGH of you. I had hoped that losing a true friend, who above all else wanted nothing more than for you to soar in life the way I knew you could, would jolt you into realizing the world is a bigger place than you. Than your life. Than your whining and your tantrums.

Selfish. Asshole. Cold hearted monster. Those eyes, in which I thought I used to see love and kindness, now I think of them as clear pools where only pre-meditated horrors are brewed. Dead eyes. Like a shark.

Why ... indeed...did I take the time for this? Because during that split second...I actually considered trying again. Helping you again. Being part of the support system you turn your back on and hurt so easily. When I went to your Twitter timeline...I saw. Nothing has changed. You're still up to no good. You're still living your life inside a social network. Inside your phone. Texting this, tweeting that. You have no talk about college, life, bettering yourself. Just being your usual, childish...stupid self. Actually stupid. Acting stupid.

Did I mention, you were stupid?

P.S. You're not all that.

P.S.S. You're stupid.

And also, when she comes down...

I'm sitting here replaying this song...over and over in my head. Watching Seth Avett sing this with every cell in his body. With Yari drowning here...with every strum.

Love...relationship...a true, dysfunctional, timeless one is described so simply.

I hope. I hope. But sometimes, change doesn't come. Will it be too late, by the time Hate opens his eyes and says 'Sorry?'...Whatever.

Do yourself a favor. Watch the video. Breathe in the lyrics. Wake up...and choose. Love is patient...to an extent.

To my son Seth, that will someday come...eventually...because I've dreamed him so...I chose your name right.

Love writes a letter and sends it to hate.
My vacations ending. I'm coming home late.
The weather was fine and the ocean was great
and I can't wait to see you again.

Hate reads the letter and throws it away.
"No one here cares if you go or you stay.
I barely even noticed that you were away.
I'll see you or I won't, whatever."

Love sings a song as she sails through the sky.
The water looks bluer through her pretty eyes.
And everyone knows it whenever she flies,
and also when she comes down.

Hate keeps his head up and walks through the street.
Every stranger and drifter he greets.
And shakes hands with every loner he meets
with a serious look on his face.

Love arrives safely with suitcase in tow.
Carrying with her the good things we know.
A reason to live and a reason to grow.
To trust. To hope. To care.

Hate sits alone on the hood of his car.
Without much regard to the moon or the stars.
Lazily killing the last of a jar
of the strongest stuff you can drink.

Love takes a taxi, a young man drives.
As soon as he sees her, hope fills his eyes.
But tears follow after, at the end of the ride,
cause he might never see her again.

Hate gets home lucky to still be alive.
He screams o'er the sidewalk and into the drive.
The clock in the kitchen says 2:55,
And the clock in the kitchen is slow.

Love has been waiting, patient and kind.
Just wanting a phone call or some kind of sign,
That the one that she cares for, who's out of his mind,
Will make it back safe to her arms.

Hate stumbles forward and leans in the door.
Weary head hung, eyes to the floor.
He says "Love, I'm sorry", and she says, "What for?
I'm your and that's it, Whatever.
I should not have been gone for so long.
I'm your's and that's it, forever."

You're mine and that's it, forever.