7.31.2010
These Days.
It has always been a part of me to be a good example for those around me. I've always felt responsible for leading my younger friends down the right way. If you haven't noticed, everything that the younger ones do is a variation of what we did when we were their age. We showed them the party life, being promiscuous, and all that smoking and drinking bullshit.
It still is, and always has been on us, to be positive examples. Feel me?
I've spent the past few semesters in a mentoring program hosted by my school for high school kids around LA from Compton to Washington Prep. Hanging out with them this Summer was a lot of fun. I still feel the same way as when I was in high school so being a mentor and connecting with them is fun.
I didn't have any mentors, didn't really have anybody to look up to while I was in high school. My counselour didn't give a damn about me or what I wanted to do. I had to help myself and it could've been easier with someone to answer my questions. Now I do my best to compensate for what I didn't have to make it easier for them.
It still is, and always has been on us, to be positive examples. Feel me?
I've spent the past few semesters in a mentoring program hosted by my school for high school kids around LA from Compton to Washington Prep. Hanging out with them this Summer was a lot of fun. I still feel the same way as when I was in high school so being a mentor and connecting with them is fun.
I didn't have any mentors, didn't really have anybody to look up to while I was in high school. My counselour didn't give a damn about me or what I wanted to do. I had to help myself and it could've been easier with someone to answer my questions. Now I do my best to compensate for what I didn't have to make it easier for them. 
Don't be selfish with your time. It's easy to make a difference in someone's life. I love being a mentor because I get to act like I'm 18 again, except with a little more wisdom.
Respect.
Eff, You.
What do you do now?You know math has always been your weakness.
Will you continue to let it defeat you?
How will you prepare for the next test?
You didn't just fail a test for Intermediate Algebra, you failed a test of commitment.
But don't be so hard on yourself.
This wasn't the last test nor the most important test.
Relaaaaaaaxxxx.
7.24.2010
What We Talkin' Bout.
“It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” — Chuck Palahniuk
Theatrical Bliss.
Maybe I wanted to stay after the movie ended
After the credits crept
And after the audience silently left.
The two of us, alone and at last.
The protangonist of us begins to divide into those undeveloped scripts of complex love and interrupted infatuation before a hundred different imaginary You's and Me's seated in the seats who are secretly produced to see the truth.
Directed by your hands and interpreted by my words, the scenes of love stir within the silent speech spoken with sacred significance.
Projected by brown eyes, the perfect pixels define the picture of our combined minds linked and repeated a hundred times with brilliant undiscovered colors.
The soundtrack sweeps soft piano keys into misunderstood, almost invisble melodies into the epitome of sentimental climax.
In the middle of this theatrical bliss, forever to be continued, hearts expand and crave a kiss.
After the credits crept
And after the audience silently left.
The two of us, alone and at last.
The protangonist of us begins to divide into those undeveloped scripts of complex love and interrupted infatuation before a hundred different imaginary You's and Me's seated in the seats who are secretly produced to see the truth.
Directed by your hands and interpreted by my words, the scenes of love stir within the silent speech spoken with sacred significance.
Projected by brown eyes, the perfect pixels define the picture of our combined minds linked and repeated a hundred times with brilliant undiscovered colors.
The soundtrack sweeps soft piano keys into misunderstood, almost invisble melodies into the epitome of sentimental climax.
In the middle of this theatrical bliss, forever to be continued, hearts expand and crave a kiss.
"With These Hands"
Wit these 10 fingers, I was blessed
Wit these hands, I use when im stressed
...Wit these hands, I use to to greet my closest friends
Wit these hands, I count the money, they encourage me to save
Wit these hands, I gently rub my womans back
Wit these hands, I clench together and talk to my father.
Wit these hands, I reach out to anyone who calls out for help
Wit these 10 fingers, I was blessed
Wit these hands, I use when im stressed
---Written by Chris Smith
Wit these hands, I use when im stressed
...Wit these hands, I use to to greet my closest friends
Wit these hands, I count the money, they encourage me to save
Wit these hands, I gently rub my womans back
Wit these hands, I clench together and talk to my father.
Wit these hands, I reach out to anyone who calls out for help
Wit these 10 fingers, I was blessed
Wit these hands, I use when im stressed
---Written by Chris Smith
I Want To Bring Up Those Times We Laughed In Class.
There was so much that was humorous to us. From inside jokes, clowning and teasing and messing with the teachers. There were cool teachers who allowed the occasional joke to surface so the whole class can laugh, but to an extent. Then back to the lesson. We didn't take advantage of those teachers. We like them. We also had numerous Laughter Nazis who punished those who snickered. Ahhh, those classrooms.
Everything is funnier when you're not allowed to laugh, when it has to be muffled with your hands or backpack, fake a cough or sneeze... We loved it! I loved it. It only took one person, the epicenter, to throw a paper clip, whisper something funny and in a manner of minutes, the whole class would be stifling their laughter. One would eventually let out a HA HA and the teacher would have no clue what's going on!
Our sense of humor was... I dont know what to call it but they would never catch on! They're being professionals but we're being comedians and the class was the audience.
Throwing shit was the best! Theres a specific science to throwing any object in the classroom. Certain aspects include What the object is, how far you're throwing it, who's it going to hit, did you even hit them, did it hit somebody accidentally, did the teacher see you, was the entire class quiet or loud, if someone threw something at you- do you throw it back or throw something bigger, did it make a noise when it hit, did you really just throw a sharp ass pencil 5 aisles over, did you get caught, and most important did you hit the teacher.
Amongst us clowns, substitute teachers was like having a field day!
It was an art form: getting on the subs nerves without getting your name on the "misbehaved list".
For instance, one day the sub began to call roll and everybody said "here" for the wrong name. (Guys would say "here" for a girls name and so on...) 3,4 people would say here for one name. That kind of shit was hilarious!
We only wanted to make the best of boring situations while we were still at the stage where it's acceptable. It was funny when someone shone a red laser at the teacher proctoring the CAHSEE. It was funny when they put it in his eye and he slapped himself and funnier when he got mad at the entire class. This scenario would not be tolerated when I'm taking my board exam to be a Pharmacist. Or anytime in college. However, no matter how formal the situation may be, that humor will always be in me. The important thing is to know that we are at the age where we must ACT ACCORDINGLY.
Another one of my favorites was when someone would clear their throats, then someone else and next thing the whole class is clearing their throats one at a time. The teacher gets up, goes fuckin nuts! Says they'll kick out he next person who is "disruptive". Then, after a moment of silence, our eyes dart around the room, looking for that one brave soul to actually do it, to clear their throats in such a Smartass manner that it sends the teacher in a fuckin UPROAR! And the class goes WILD! Although they got kicked out the classroom for the remainder, the teacher knows that we won. We broke their control. Our sense of humor crossed the Iritation threshold.
I was one of those who counted days. I don't mean counting how many days to graduation. I counted the days of significance. I counted the days that I knew I would remember. Nobody remembers the blur, the unordinary. Those people who made days extraordinary I've still got love for. If it weren't for them, I would have nothing to recall throughout my high school years.
The aesthetics of my environment is what inspired me to start writing. From the redundant class lessons to the friends and close friends, my early stages of poetry contain many allusions to my environment.
I want to mention the quality of teachers and how a couple semesters of mutual dedication can lead to years of discipline and understanding. If you were fortunate to have Mr. Monroe for math, you know what I'm talking about. Even through these college years whatever As and Bs Ive obtained, I'm most proud of the two As I got in his Algebra 1 class. That was my Sophomore year.
The moral of all this is understanding how we, at young ages, naturally make the best of our conditions and situations. To many, the last day couldn't come soon enough. Dreading a place so much can lead to dreading the people and all the other factors that made that place an institution, a forced society in which individuality is interpreted as conforming.
I'm not saying I miss high school, just reminiscing. I see myself sitting in class these days and I always catch the opportunity to clown on someone or make a joke but I keep it to myself.
Everything is funnier when you're not allowed to laugh, when it has to be muffled with your hands or backpack, fake a cough or sneeze... We loved it! I loved it. It only took one person, the epicenter, to throw a paper clip, whisper something funny and in a manner of minutes, the whole class would be stifling their laughter. One would eventually let out a HA HA and the teacher would have no clue what's going on!
Our sense of humor was... I dont know what to call it but they would never catch on! They're being professionals but we're being comedians and the class was the audience.
Throwing shit was the best! Theres a specific science to throwing any object in the classroom. Certain aspects include What the object is, how far you're throwing it, who's it going to hit, did you even hit them, did it hit somebody accidentally, did the teacher see you, was the entire class quiet or loud, if someone threw something at you- do you throw it back or throw something bigger, did it make a noise when it hit, did you really just throw a sharp ass pencil 5 aisles over, did you get caught, and most important did you hit the teacher.
Amongst us clowns, substitute teachers was like having a field day!
It was an art form: getting on the subs nerves without getting your name on the "misbehaved list".
For instance, one day the sub began to call roll and everybody said "here" for the wrong name. (Guys would say "here" for a girls name and so on...) 3,4 people would say here for one name. That kind of shit was hilarious!
We only wanted to make the best of boring situations while we were still at the stage where it's acceptable. It was funny when someone shone a red laser at the teacher proctoring the CAHSEE. It was funny when they put it in his eye and he slapped himself and funnier when he got mad at the entire class. This scenario would not be tolerated when I'm taking my board exam to be a Pharmacist. Or anytime in college. However, no matter how formal the situation may be, that humor will always be in me. The important thing is to know that we are at the age where we must ACT ACCORDINGLY.
Another one of my favorites was when someone would clear their throats, then someone else and next thing the whole class is clearing their throats one at a time. The teacher gets up, goes fuckin nuts! Says they'll kick out he next person who is "disruptive". Then, after a moment of silence, our eyes dart around the room, looking for that one brave soul to actually do it, to clear their throats in such a Smartass manner that it sends the teacher in a fuckin UPROAR! And the class goes WILD! Although they got kicked out the classroom for the remainder, the teacher knows that we won. We broke their control. Our sense of humor crossed the Iritation threshold.
I was one of those who counted days. I don't mean counting how many days to graduation. I counted the days of significance. I counted the days that I knew I would remember. Nobody remembers the blur, the unordinary. Those people who made days extraordinary I've still got love for. If it weren't for them, I would have nothing to recall throughout my high school years.
The aesthetics of my environment is what inspired me to start writing. From the redundant class lessons to the friends and close friends, my early stages of poetry contain many allusions to my environment.
I want to mention the quality of teachers and how a couple semesters of mutual dedication can lead to years of discipline and understanding. If you were fortunate to have Mr. Monroe for math, you know what I'm talking about. Even through these college years whatever As and Bs Ive obtained, I'm most proud of the two As I got in his Algebra 1 class. That was my Sophomore year.
The moral of all this is understanding how we, at young ages, naturally make the best of our conditions and situations. To many, the last day couldn't come soon enough. Dreading a place so much can lead to dreading the people and all the other factors that made that place an institution, a forced society in which individuality is interpreted as conforming.
I'm not saying I miss high school, just reminiscing. I see myself sitting in class these days and I always catch the opportunity to clown on someone or make a joke but I keep it to myself.
7.21.2010
Extravagant Iridescence Golden.
She takes me back to the firstest of grades.
Two ends forever knotted.
True friends never forgotted.
Intangible hearts felted.
Love lit, candles melted.
Waxed hands forever holded.
First beauty in the form of clay molded.
Extravagant, iridescence golden.
Times we were together
And photos I don't remember.
Genuine words shared and meanted;
An Incomplete sentence
Love love, Passion blended.
Time line with lost dates.
Extravagant iridescence golden
Always-burning-Never-ending wicks
I love you, clay candle sticks
Burned yet never melted
Sunshine, blind fates.
She's the greatest phrase and I'm an incomplete sentence without a page.
Two ends forever knotted.
True friends never forgotted.
Intangible hearts felted.
Love lit, candles melted.
Waxed hands forever holded.
First beauty in the form of clay molded.
Extravagant, iridescence golden.
Times we were together
And photos I don't remember.
Genuine words shared and meanted;
An Incomplete sentence
Love love, Passion blended.
Time line with lost dates.
Extravagant iridescence golden
Always-burning-Never-ending wicks
I love you, clay candle sticks
Burned yet never melted
Sunshine, blind fates.
She's the greatest phrase and I'm an incomplete sentence without a page.
7.08.2010
700 Million Things.
There are those days where I wake up.
There are those days where I wake up and my brother's breakfast coats the dreams and blends in reality.
What truly makes my day does not lie in the false existence of time passing by, yellow exhaust, or cheeseburger billboards, but in the practice of being myself and appreciation of all things remained untouched by man.
There are those days where the curbs of these streets all seem faulty and cracked, unstable pavements taken forgranted by inpatient pedestrians pushing to their occupation.
Man-made, blueprint engineered and crafted with gloves on, half of what I see is constructed in the pursuit of a paycheck.
There are those days where the sting of a bee exudes more beauty than the Downtown Los Angeles skyline; natures pinch to believe in the smaller wings in life.
The blue that we breath is only polluted in absence of beach.
Once-in-a-lifetime waves with no structure retreat after reaching for your feet and there are those days where life seems grey after buses and trains offer you the same seat.
Man-made, adjusted by hand and erected upon unstable pavements,
Yellow street lamps attempt to compensate for the absence of solar energy, harvested, yet untouched by man.
There are those days where the slow and soft seem fast and hard.
My convoluted imagination seeks to be free from speeds yielding to gravity.
There are those days where gummy bears taste better after sex and her scratches seem to compensate for the absence of 700 million things, all man-made, overrated objects than seem lost when the slow and soft feel fast and hard.
In the days where I practice being myself, the pages become planets, my pen the Sun, and my thoughts the convoluted constellation with colliding comets.
What truly makes my day actually happens tomorrow when I wake up to my brother's breakfast well after my dreams have dreamt and I've more than slept past the false existence of mismanaged time.
There are those days where I wake up and my brother's breakfast coats the dreams and blends in reality.
What truly makes my day does not lie in the false existence of time passing by, yellow exhaust, or cheeseburger billboards, but in the practice of being myself and appreciation of all things remained untouched by man.
There are those days where the curbs of these streets all seem faulty and cracked, unstable pavements taken forgranted by inpatient pedestrians pushing to their occupation.
Man-made, blueprint engineered and crafted with gloves on, half of what I see is constructed in the pursuit of a paycheck.
There are those days where the sting of a bee exudes more beauty than the Downtown Los Angeles skyline; natures pinch to believe in the smaller wings in life.
The blue that we breath is only polluted in absence of beach.
Once-in-a-lifetime waves with no structure retreat after reaching for your feet and there are those days where life seems grey after buses and trains offer you the same seat.
Man-made, adjusted by hand and erected upon unstable pavements,
Yellow street lamps attempt to compensate for the absence of solar energy, harvested, yet untouched by man.
There are those days where the slow and soft seem fast and hard.
My convoluted imagination seeks to be free from speeds yielding to gravity.
There are those days where gummy bears taste better after sex and her scratches seem to compensate for the absence of 700 million things, all man-made, overrated objects than seem lost when the slow and soft feel fast and hard.
In the days where I practice being myself, the pages become planets, my pen the Sun, and my thoughts the convoluted constellation with colliding comets.
What truly makes my day actually happens tomorrow when I wake up to my brother's breakfast well after my dreams have dreamt and I've more than slept past the false existence of mismanaged time.
7.03.2010
"When I Was Born"
These thoughts are secrets that my
Heart overheard from the conversations
In my head.
Sure its nosey but my heart KNOWS ME.
Every beat is company so I never get lonely.
It attempts to mimic the love that she's shown me.
Every night, I write about her.
Using bold metaphors with old descriptions
That I've never said before.
And she reciprocates these inscriptions with the wisdom
That I seek.
I speak to her. No, I speak through her.
She is my medium through which I reach this intelligent speech.
In other words, She is the sand, ocean and bronze horizon
That create this beach [ I call Life ]
She acknowledges me as hers
And I acknowledge her as mine
[ Because ] She is the only Woman who sings and dances in my mind.
Nevertheless, I am forced to share her with other thinkers
Who express and impress her through theological and philosophical
Words composed together to form impotent lines.
My Poems are secrets that my
Heart overheard from the conversations
In my head.
Poetry believes in me. Poetry sets me free.
She is that last heart beat before I fall asleep.
Poetry mends my heart when it is torn.
Poetry. Poetry.
Poetry gave me her heart when I was born.
Heart overheard from the conversations
In my head.
Sure its nosey but my heart KNOWS ME.
Every beat is company so I never get lonely.
It attempts to mimic the love that she's shown me.
Every night, I write about her.
Using bold metaphors with old descriptions
That I've never said before.
And she reciprocates these inscriptions with the wisdom
That I seek.
I speak to her. No, I speak through her.
She is my medium through which I reach this intelligent speech.
In other words, She is the sand, ocean and bronze horizon
That create this beach [ I call Life ]
She acknowledges me as hers
And I acknowledge her as mine
[ Because ] She is the only Woman who sings and dances in my mind.
Nevertheless, I am forced to share her with other thinkers
Who express and impress her through theological and philosophical
Words composed together to form impotent lines.
My Poems are secrets that my
Heart overheard from the conversations
In my head.
Poetry believes in me. Poetry sets me free.
She is that last heart beat before I fall asleep.
Poetry mends my heart when it is torn.
Poetry. Poetry.
Poetry gave me her heart when I was born.
9-15-08
This is one of my favorite pieces I've written, about 2 years old and I still feel the same as when I wrote it. "My Poems are secrets that my heart overheard from the conversations in my head" I LOVE that shit!
D.C. Chillin!
After winning a scholarshpi from the California Hispanic Chambers of Commerce, I was invited to Washington, D.C. for the United Health Foundation Diverse Scholars Forum last week. It was an all expenses paid trip and I was staying a few blocks away from the White House.
I didn't expect it to be so life changing. Didn't expect to meet so many people my age making moves such as myself in the same field. I felt inspired when I stood where Martin Luther King Jr gave his "I Have A Dream" speech and where Obama was inaugurated.
The trip wasn't just about exploring D.C. It was an incredible networking experience for me and I made a buunch of new friends.
I learned that you have to break out of your daily-to-daily, break out of your circle of friends, and open your eyes past what you see everyday in order to see how others are mapping out this future stuff. If you think you're the most prepared in your circle, put yourself in position to meet people outside of California and see how they're plotting.
Don't Sleep.
Don't Sleep.
Don't Sleep.
Why I Love Los Angeles.
My favorite spot for Quesadillas is La Careta on Compton Ave and Vermont. Always comes correct with a cold Coke or horchata.
What Do We Share?
Recently, I got hit with some knowledge from a homeless man whom I noticed must've been sleeping on the streets for just a few weeks.
I got him a Tam's burger and Coke and after saying Thanks to me, he got spiritual for a minute.
Out of everything he laid out, what most caught my attention was this:
"What is it that keeps us together? What is it that we can share......Think about it, young brotha. We can share food...money...knowledge...and most importantly, education."
And the only thing I can think about that we all share is when we click on that "Share" button on Facebook, Twitter, Myspace.
Respect.
I got him a Tam's burger and Coke and after saying Thanks to me, he got spiritual for a minute.
Out of everything he laid out, what most caught my attention was this:
"What is it that keeps us together? What is it that we can share......Think about it, young brotha. We can share food...money...knowledge...and most importantly, education."
And the only thing I can think about that we all share is when we click on that "Share" button on Facebook, Twitter, Myspace.
Respect.
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