I am a creature of my own deeds.
The repetition and the emptiness of my life
is disrupted by: the word of little girl,
the monotonous fly of a night butterfly,
the nicotine of a cigarette, the words never said,
and the none ending light of my full moon.
When I write, I disappear in my truths, in my pain,
passions, joys and concerns.
The city has grown, the seagulls have left,
the people are the same.
I am in heaven and hell, in yesterday and today.
I am less and less upset of being alone,
without a family, without a country, without friends.
I force myself to eliminate my feelings of complaint.
I write poetry to be alive, to be who I am.
Not to be understood, not to be accepted,
not to be awarded, not to get social status,
not to sell books.
My poems are like radiographs of myself,
they show my poetic health and my poetic sickness.
I am the healer.
In a few years I will take my trip without return.
You are my beloved and you will always be.
Hector Ahumada.9/30/2015.USA. Anti-poem.