Tapping Into Something Raw

Rip open my heart and show the world the most tender parts of myself.
A tale of a lost love, personal failures, or the echoes of a war.
Dive into the details of which has left a mark upon me.
I’ll give you my insightful, whimsically fresh perspective.
I’m a real artist.

Get chicks to be impressed by my secret layers and soft side.
Get the bro’s to totally relate and get hit in the feels.
Get that glimmering sense of self-worth by the barrage of likes.
Social media acceptance and approval. I am on top of the world.
I feel like a real artist.

Face the blank page again.
Trying to tap into something raw inside. Bitches dig when I write something raw.
Moving those fingers, vomit words and hope they stick together.
Fucking garbage. *Delete. Delete. Delete.*
I ain’t no artist.

Time heals a lot of wounds. Scars no longer visible.
What once rocked me to my very core, is but a memory of a tremor.
The nightmares are no longer as frequent.
Tranquil acceptance fills me when I look at those pictures.
Maybe these are just excuses. As I find the courage to tap into something raw.
In order to prove that I’m still an artist.

~Raul Felix

Read: For This One Day, She Made Me Forget
Read: Heartbreak
Read: The She Serpent Wrapped Herself Around The Young Man

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His Mind Is A Whirlwind Of Thoughts

IG: raulfelix275

He mounts his motorcycle,
Blood heavy with alcohol and weed.
He has no care for the stupidity of his actions.
His mind has gone to a dark place.
He wonders about the point of it all.
Whether it will be better to just let go.

He races down the freeway,
Zooming in between cars,
Keeping his iron steed steady.

His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts.
His usual sweet, friendly, and joyful demeanor,
Drowned in whiskey.
Anger, hatred, frustration, jealousy, rage,
Pain, loss, heartbreak, sadness,
Now reign supreme over all his emotions.
The darkness he buries deep inside,
Is now maliciously intent on destroying him.

The wind blows the tears from his face.
At the top of his lungs he curses those who have wronged him,
The events which have left permanent scars on his heart and soul,
He raises his left hand up and flips the world the bird.
He is free.

He pulls up to his home,
Kicks down the kick stand, dismounts, and lovingly caresses her.
There are no ghastly consequences tonight for his recklessness.
“Thanks for getting me home alive, babe,” he says to his beauty.
His temperament is cooled by her.
He lies down on his bed and passes out.

~Raul Felix

Read: In A Park On The Shores Of Lake Michigan
Read: Shards Of Broken Glass Scattered On The Kitchen Floor
Read: Another Night Wasted Getting Wasted

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In A Park On The Shores Of Lake Michigan

At 3 a.m. on a bench in a park on the shores of Lake Michigan,
I wrote a poem to my former love.
It poured out of me and had me crying for a few minutes upon completion.
The tears eventually dried up,
Acceptance of that lost love settled inside of me,
As the cold breeze of the lake hit me.

I laid out on a picnic table with my sleeping pad and sleeping bag,
Seeking to rest my exhausted heart and body.
As I was dozing off, a raindrop hit my forehead.
I awoke, looking up into the once star filled sky,
Now covered with the looming clouds of a storm.

Rain poured down from the heavens,
Drenching myself, my sleeping pad, my sleeping bag, and my motorcycle.
I packed up my things, rode my motorcycle across the street to a McDonalds,
Wet, shivering cold, and tired, I ate breakfast as I waited out the storm.
A couple of hours later,
The storm passed, the sun began to rise,
I rode back to that picnic table and slept.

I awoke to a majestic blue sky,
A gentle breeze, the chirping of birds,
The water from the storm dried up.
I knew I would be okay.

~Raul Felix

Read: The Witch In My Dream
Read: Shards Of Broken Glass Scattered On The Kitchen Floor
Read: She Dances Like A Flame

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Another Night Wasted Getting Wasted

I wake up still wearing my jeans,
I didn’t piss myself this time at least.
Room’s thrashed, emptied beer cans scattered throughout.
It’s 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Another night wasted getting wasted.

I have nowhere to be; I have no one to be with.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty empty cans are stuffed into a garbage bag.
There is a comfort in escaping my frustrations with myself,
My frustrations with loneliness and reality,
Seeking refuge in vice.

Sweet serpent drink, whose poison kisses my lips.
Your cool embrace a reliable comfort in my life.
Women come and go, boozing remains.
Jobs come and go, boozing remains.
Cities come and go, boozing remains

Even when I muster the strength to resist your temptation,
Boredom, annoyances, celebration, life eventually strikes,
Causing me to seek your poison kisses once more,
Their gentle touch enhancing reality,
Distorting its undesirable aspects,
Allowing one to lose themselves in the abyss of the mind,
Wasting another night getting wasted.

~Raul Felix

Read: Maybe I Shouldn’t Have Taught A Psycho Bitch How To Shoot
Read: A Day In The Life Of A Debauched Traveler
Read: She Wouldn’t Make Me So Angry If She Didn’t Own My Heart

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The Love Of My Life From Age 25

A week ago, at the grizzled age of 30,
I reconnected with you, my love from the age of 25.
I wish you knew me as the man I am today,
Instead of the vulgar, drunken fool who was easily pissed
The one who chased away love at the age of 26.

I blame myself each and everyday,
For letting my ego chase away such an understanding lover,
One who understood my temperament and quirks,
Like no other.

I write this to you,
The former love of my life,
The one I met at 25.
Tears flowing down my cheek,
I apologize that my ego was so weak.

Two days with you was a tease of the life I could’ve had,
One I keep dreaming and longing for really bad,
But reality has kicked my ass,
And let me know the time of our romance has passed.

The realist in me says let go of all hope,
The romantic in me is willing to look like a dope,
But neither of those matter anymore,
Because I have lost the love my life,
The one I met at 25.

~Raul Felix

Read: Watching You Get Dressed Again
Read: She Had The Body Of A Greek Goddess
Read: The Lights of Los Angeles Loom

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Buffalo Hill Will Make A Man Out Of You

“I’m a fucking beast,” I say to myself,
I take those first steps running up Buffalo Hill.
There is always some college student slowly walking up it,
Occasionally, it’s a chick whose glorious ass I get lost in,
I’m reminded of what I want in my life.
More often, it’s a scrawny nerd unaware of the world around him,
I’m reminded of what I don’t want to become.
Buffalo Hill will make a man out of you.

When the body is in pain, it’s best to let the mind wander.
Halfway up, my mind runs rampant.
Thoughts of women past, family, friends, war, motorcycle trips,
Parking tickets, writing, money, and schemes for pussy.
Buffalo Hill will make a man out of you.

I’m approaching the final incline,
My stride becomes faster, eyes focus, bellowing grunts.
I reach the peak, smile as I stare down on conquered land.
Nice warm up. I continue my run.
Buffalo Hill will make a man out of you.

~Raul Felix

Read: She Was Traveling Through My Country
Read: Becoming A Beast May Help You Win The Beauty
Read: Keep Moving, Young Man

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Oh Well, We’re Off To War Again

“Ones!” yells the private as he opens the door of my hooch.
It mildly annoys me.
It’s a pretty fucking good episode of Scrubs, damn it.
I quickly slip on and tie up the laces of my boots.
Oh well, we’re off to war again.

I zip up my top as I speed walk to the ready room,
I make a quick detour to grab a couple of Rip Its and Pop Tarts from the MWR.
From my cubby, I slip on my kit, Peltors, and MICH.
I test my NODS, grab my M4: clear it, pop in a magazine.
We’re off to war again.

The gunner and I begin our respective duties.
The gunner turns on the comms and loads the .50 cal,
I hop in the Stryker driver’s seat, fire up the engine,
I stand on the seat, looking out the hatch.
The TC approaches us after the hasty mission brief,
A steady flow of men, the tip of America’s spear soon follow.
Sixty-seven men, six Strykers, two Little Birds, and a military dog will descend Tonight on some poor souls’ door step.
Fuck yeah, we’re off to war again.

~Raul Felix

Read: Eager To Pop My Cherry On The Battlefield
Read: Jumping Out of Airplanes: How It’s Really Like
Read: The Military’s Parasite Problem

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I Look At Your Dead Blog

I look at your dead blog,
Not a single update in over two and a half years.
You were so avid about it,
Writing those juicy sex stories,
Some fact, some fiction,
Other’s a combination of the two.
Writing was your dream.

I look at your dead blog,
As I am reading over your old entries,
I am reminded of how much more talented I thought you were than me.
The biting jokes,
The shameless sultriness of your words,
The glorification of promiscuity,
Your potential still glows.

We began exchanging e-mails,
Instant messages and video chats.
We would talk every morning.
You believed in my writing,
You would proof read my posts,
You taught me the difference between than and then.

I fell hard.
We made plans for me to fly out to Toronto to see you.
You grew angry with me when I told my ex-girlfriend I was going to see you.
Your unreasonable, female jealousy took hold.
You told me you wouldn’t see me.
I went anyway to prove how serious I was.
Your Eastern European coldness was unmoved.

I walked the streets of that fucking city a broken man,
Holding my hand out, imagining I was holding yours.
Every moment felt like a fucking waste.
I ate those lonely, silent meals.
I drank beers at bars staring into my glass,
I smoked weed at the Hot Box Cafe while writing shitty poetry.
I cried myself to sleep in my cheap hostel room.

I returned to California,
With a tattered heart,
Embarrassed that I was so naive to believe I could prove myself.
A bit of my romantic innocence forever lost.
I wrote motivational pieces to give myself hope.

I hated you for a long time.
I was quickly forgotten by you.
I couldn’t even look at your pictures without the pain returning.
Now when I open that folder,
There’s the merciful feeling of indifference.

A picture of your first baby is your default on Facebook now.
Your priorities have changed.
You have found your happiness.
I look at your dead blog.
Writing was your dream,
Yet, I’m the one who is still pounding away at the keyboard.

~Raul Felix

Read: Empty Chair
Read: She May Have Given Up On You
Read: Heartbreak

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God Damn Common Whore Cold

I cough violently. I sneeze as loud as thunder, snot dripping.
“Fuck!”
I blow my nose into a tissue.
I know exactly who got me sick.
That chick with the pink hair I made out with after work.
The next morning, I felt raspy in my throat.
God damn common whore cold.

A few days later, I’m feeling better.
But, my roommates begin to exhibit symptoms.
Same violent coughs, loud sneeze, and snotty noses.
The unmistakable orchestra of the virus’s triumph.
God damn common whore cold.

A couple of weeks later,
The plague has spread to the dwellings of friends who visit often.
Wreaking havoc and causing despair,
Pink scabbed noses and constantly watery eyes.
Dozens of used tissues scattered about,
Empty medicine bottles and Vitamin C tablets,
Vain attempts to control,
That God damn common whore cold.

~Raul Felix

Read: Where Are My Whores?
Read: Eager To Pop My Cherry On The Battlefield
Read: The Witch In My Dream

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She Dances Like A Flame

Her red dress pops from the colorless crowd,
Hips swaying side to side,
Perfectly in sync with the music.
Arms in the air,
Her crimson hair thrashes about.
She’s a flame lighting those around her.

Bright red lips,
Jewelry glinting from the lights of the stage,
Beads of sweat on her brow,
Her smooth, muscular calfs rhythmically thumping.
She’s a woman releasing the fire inside her.

She uses the music as a flourishing wind,
Nourishing the kinder within,
Until it flashes into a wildfire.
For those fiery moments,
She is untamable.

The boiling of her blood,
Causing her skin to flush,
As her radiance engulfs those around her.

She’s a woman who’s normally shy and quiet,
Cool, calm, collected.
Yet when that music fans the fire in her soul,
She can’t help but dance like a flame.

~Raul Felix

Read: Watching You Get Dressed Again
Read: She Was Traveling Through My Country
Read: Why Should I Write About Her?

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