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Edwin Cordero Poems
Sometimes, it's better not to speak Than to be judged for your words. Excuse me for not believing in fairies, I was raised by this dirt
What to Tell?
Don't say when I cannot prevail; Life's a grimly-told tale, And none of us it favors well. From the nothingness, which we hail,
Up on this mountain, A clear fountain Distills water.
The Wheelchair Spins like Life
These wheels spin To stares engulfing grins. No one wants this thing; The blatant rush drives patience thin.
The Lucky Plant
Did I ever rant about my Lucky Bamboo plant? Lucky, of course, because it needs no land. The world is scant, although a sycophant, And this beauty needs not a hand.
Weathered wings doing wretched things On my life, wringing everything. I hear him breathe, as a disease, Slowly consuming.
What I'd do for another whisper from that voice, Pleading, bleeding, calling out for my choice. Say' it'd been the wrong waist—a waste Within horses of troy, chasing a pace
The Work Ants
Sometimes, I feel like a toy. No, not a real boy. Joy comes through me Until I'm broken.
Here lies one door I should not have opened. Someone saw my riches, and they were stolen. Whatever may happen, this remains unspoken. No one must know what it is provoking.
The Sea and the Lighthouse
Moon, strengthen the tide. Seas of regret and pride— Faith, the lighthouse of my life, How do you shine so bright?
Someone tell me it isn't the truth— Who could imagine a slaughter this magnitude? People's passions viciously fused For the worst of reasons to be used.
Ignored by the World
Chase! Chase it down To the town And back, if needed.
We're numb to those scorned homes Within this dome that condones Their destruction. They're strung at the brink of forlorn zones;
Comments about Edwin Cordero
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Sometimes, it's better not to speak
Than to be judged for your words.
Excuse me for not believing in fairies,
I was raised by this dirt
Where some of the only things with wings
And the stuff of old men's dreams
See, we may never see eye to eye,
But I promise I would never categorize
You as good or evil, because that's a disguise.
It takes true talent to accept both sides.
Welcome to my world: I was raised in a haze
Where you remained in a book all day
Of fortunetellers' bid for power,
Until I noticed how we spent ...