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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To My Future Wife: I Will Make You Proud To Have Me As Your Man

Screen Shot 2015-12-15 at 7.46.01 PM

I write this poem for you because I am lonely.
I write this at this moment because I don’t know who you are,
Or even the prospect of who you may be.
I write this because I need to give myself hope,
To write some words that I desperately need to get out of my system.

Each day I work on myself.
Not just to make myself and my life better,
Also to be better for you.

I work on myself so when the time comes,
I am able to catch your attention and interest,
I am able to impress you with who I am,
I am able to show you I am worthwhile,
I am able to make you proud to have me as your man.

Some days, I struggle and I lie in my bed.
Feeling sorry for myself,
Feeling angry and frustrated,
Feeling defeated, worthless, cheap, dumb, and gullible.

Yet there is this fire inside of me,
I know I can’t just lie there.
I have to continue on my trek to success.
I work hard to make the money to establish myself,
I work out to create a strong body for both your pleasure and protection.
I read in order to increase my wit, intelligence, and knowledge.
I write in order to keep myself sane and develop my true talent.

I want to be a good man.
I want to be good at being a man.
I want to be a good enough man for you.
All of this takes time.

You’re out there; I believe that.
I make you this promise:
No matter how many fake numbers and false starts,
No matter how many flakes, ditzes, sluts, and users I deal with,
No matter how emotionally beaten I become,
No matter how many disappointments or heartbreaks in the process;
I will find you.

When I do,
You’ll be glad to find out about me,
I am a man with the mental fortitude to endure all games,
I am a man with the drive to shrug off rejections with a smirk,
I am a man who is willing to put in the hard work to win you,
I am a man who doesn’t quit.

One day you’ll find this poem among my collections.
I wrote it not knowing who you are,
Yet knowing you exist.
In order to defeat cynicism and hopelessness,
To reignite that flame inside myself,
To move forward another day,
Take another step,
To becoming the man you’ll fall in love with.

~Raul Felix

Read: She May Have Given Up On You
Read: She Wouldn’t Make Me So Angry If She Didn’t Own My Heart
Read: 6 Ways Women Have Rejected Me

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A Few Maxims On Writing

Keep the ugly,
Find the beauty in the ordinary,
Find the ordinary in the extraordinary.

Write what you know,
Write what you don’t,
Make up the rest.

Take what an academic says with a grain a salt,
What a troll says with a smirk,
What a fan says graciously,
What a lover says as flattery,
What a best friend says with a shot of whiskey.

You’re not special,
Give it time.
No one is waiting for your genius,
Your genius is waiting on you to do the work.

Show up everyday,
Write something great,
Write something good,
Write something mediocre,
Write a ton of terrible pieces.

Struggle,
Hate yourself,
Feel like a failure.
Learn from those greater than you.
Struggle some more.

Lose all hope.

Show up everyday,
Write a ton of terrible pieces.
Write something mediocre,
Write something good,
Write something great.

Feel great.

Check your spelling and grammar.
Be scared to share your work.
Do it any way.

Know the rules,
Fuck the rules.

~Raul Felix

Read: Keep Moving Young Man
Read: How To Find The Greatness Within You
Read: The Witch In My Dream

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How Much More Do I Need To Bleed?

They say that it’s easy to write,
That all you have to do is bleed on the page.
After feeling the blade of that knife so many times,
One begins to wonder…

How much more do I need to bleed?
Until my fucking soul can be at ease?
Until all those fucking thoughts in my mind are laid to rest?
Until I can at last be fucking content?

Each time cutting yourself,
Reliving memories, events, conversations,
Long since forgotten by others.
Picking apart, dissecting, and analyzing,
In search of that moment of raw humanity.

Eventually the blood stops flowing,
The cut scabs over.
Yet, the soul grows restless,
Needing to expose more of itself to the world.

The bleeding becomes addicting,
The emotional pain becomes a validation of your worthiness as an
Artist.
A benchmark which you judge yourself by,
To see if you truly pushed yourself.

The words are bouncing around in your head,
But it needs your blood to come to fruition.
You cut yourself open once again,
Bleeding out slowly.
As you are reminded of how painful it is,
You begin to wonder…
How much more do I need to bleed?

~Raul Felix

Read: What It Is To Write
Read: She Was Traveling Through My Country
Read: Why Should I Write About Her

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I Miss Those Saturday Nights

I miss those Saturday nights,
Where we would lie in bed,
Laziness consuming us.
Yet, we had planned an exciting night out.

“We’ll start getting ready in five minutes,” I say.
“OK,” you respond as you press your nose into my chest.

Fifteen minutes pass.
We’re still wrapped up in each other’s arms.
“Alright, we’re getting up now,” I declare.
A few seconds pass… then I sit up.
You follow.

You get up from the bed and slowly put on a skirt.
Then I reach for your arm and pull you on top of me.
“I thought we were getting ready,” you say.
“We are…,” I say as I feel up your body.

We would be back where we were before,
In each other’s embrace.
Maybe next Saturday night.

~Raul Felix

Read: Empty Chair
Read: For This One Day, She Made Me Forget
Read: Becoming A Beast May Help You Win The Beauty

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Shards Of Broken Glass Scattered On The Kitchen Floor

“See how pretty this bottle is?” she said holding a beer bottle.
She then slams it on the kitchen floor.
Glass shards scatter. She walks to the dining room and sits down.
“That bottle will never be as it was, no matter what you do. It will cut you.”

“This hot one moment, cold the next bull shit you put me through,” I ask “It’s going to be an on going thing isn’t it?”

She nods. “I will never be who I was. I’m as broken into little bits as that bottle. I’m beautiful but I will cut you, again and again.” She sits with her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around.

“Fuck,” I lay on the floor. Alternating my eyes between her and the glass. “I will want to love and hold you. Your coldness and emotional withdraws will eat me alive. I can’t… I won’t put myself through that.”

Silence consumes the room for a while.
“What does this mean for us?” I ask.
“It means you’re free,” She replies.
“I always was. But, I’m fucking here tonight.”

“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies.

~Raul Felix

Read: She Had The Body Of A Greek Goddess
Read: Watching You Get Dressed Again

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