Matthew Hernandez
Bio
Writing as a way of reflection.
Stories (12/0)
King's Table
"Am I nothing because I have nothing? Or am I everything with nothing needed." This is a Truth that came to me while being in the current predicament I found myself in: homeless. The word itself carries many stigmas. It is a title of disability. Signal of helplessness. Careless perception of being inadequate and ineffective in society and looked down upon while being equally treated as such. An epidemic at it's finest being swept out of sight by bias laws in the name of capital gain and sustained by true law enforcement officers. It is a misfortune plaguing the individuals experiencing it that drains mentally, emotionally, and physically.
By Matthew Hernandez6 years ago in Motivation
The Wake
For far too long I've been feeling lame with nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Looking for the answer on another's paper without realizing we aren't taking the same test. My peers dropping A-bomb judgements where there is no True room to contest. Believing that choosing to not feed into this broken system is to fall short of individual best. How do you know what path I should lead better than the heart can see? Clouded expectations of where I'm supposed to be creates my valued reality. Not completely comprehending why I'm trying to fit in isn't Truly me since society's lies and secular pride have deceived my mind into this life I reap. Taught to hold on to pain and animosity against those who have betrayed this muscle that beats. Placing the blame on everyone except the mirror I meet due to this fear of trauma held subconsciously. Only through persistent introspection am I able to create a new perception aligned with a free flowing mentality on this actuality.
By Matthew Hernandez6 years ago in Poets
No Concept of Time
The calm river, wildly adorned with shrubbery, flows through a dense forest. Trees that have been forcefully uprooted by the river's once drunken rage relax on their sides, silent relics to a time that has long passed, laying their firm testimony across the young saplings who stretch eagerly toward the foamy sea sky. Absorbing every inch of sunlight that slips through their parents protective canopy fingers. The wind sings a sweet scent symphony through thick branched arms, coaxing leaves to leap gracefully upon the melody, dancing whole-hearted at their opportunity to demonstrate the routine they've each prepared. Spinning precariously around each other, exchanging partners as they sway, to bow respectively at the final note moment when they reach the ground. A creative arrangement of color that range from lush green to smoldering red, resembling stain glass, twigs and soil being the fullness inbetween. The lucky few who have been enabled to participate in the second act swirl and glide at the will of the gentle river, who conducts in time to the trickling whisper and shallow gurgling murmured by the entranced audience of rocks in which they pass by. Some leafs being reunited in still-pool pockets where tadpoles play and mosquitoes skate merrily in intricate patterns, which they refuse to repeat more than once. The rays of sun that bounce off the soft surface allure the eye of a wandering fawn, drawn toward the gleaming rainbow light seems to make in passing, cautiously inspecting the authenticity of serenity this humbly moving forest displays. Only after a slight double check does curious life allow it's warm nose to kiss the velvet water, drinking greedily from the rivers abundantly giving body. The crash of a distant tree falling shatters the surreal scene, jolting the young animal from her vulnerable daze, sending her springing into the thicket from which she came. Dashing past lazy squirrels, slumbering peacefully within the confines of their trees, and busy bees, who dully notice anything beyond their own reality, to finally be reunited with eagerly waiting guardians. They make off home at a quickened pace while chastising the adolescent for the potential danger that could have struck. The fawn barely listens to the wise words her watcher's part with as adrenaline wears away, still thinking back to the enchantment she discovered. When the fading echo is strained to be heard, a blanket of bliss gently falls back into practice, careful in design and forever free from the hands of time.
By Matthew Hernandez6 years ago in Poets
Skeletons
Turn on the light and greet the skeletons in your closet. Make sure your grip is firm and confident for they've been sizing you up; even when they hang dormant like the styles of your eighth grade year. Pretending it never happened doesn't erase it from existence, and acting as if it does not matter doesn't exempt you from acceptance. I mean, you are here, and now the baggage you carry doesn't lighten so you might as well bear the burden with tone's eyes. Pick up life and learn to let go of the dead weight cancer that killed your brother. That hushed your mother. That buckled your father's knees after raised hand "Si, se puede! (Yes, we can)" stand. The poison that ran through his veins stops at your bloodline. You've been given nothing but time wasted on another who gave no love only themselves. Go ahead, curse and cry into open air blaming others for your own thousand mile stairway to little hell. Forgiven by everyone except those same eyes that threw in the towel at the chance of new health. Stay buried and blistered like the forgotten sister, who's been abused similar to mother figure. The sound of being silenced like fitted shoes given by father figure. This vicious cyclone that throws everything around except respect reflects through a jagged mirror that does cut. New scars on skin but not on mine. Old scars off skin but only in mind. This condemning witch hunt only stopped when the sight of yourself being burned at the stake. Don't be fooled by the dead weight hate to believe this was done by mistake. Life will eventually lead back to this soft soil, deep grave that holds your forgotten name. You haven't been led astray, just have faith in being raised by that newfound Love's hand. Being dusted off by the same hand to behold mind's promised land. You've been made anew to create this path you choose; striding through death's valley of gossip and secular news. Nothing has changed, only you. Nothing is the same, only you. This is called an elevated view. Follow the breadcrumbs back to the devil's trap singing a sweeter tune than you were given to use. Being a moving mountain with a lighthouse that's no longer striped black and blue bellowing "give me your tired, your poor huddled masses" all the while nurturing the conquering Love that has been anticipated in foretold lore. Finally snatching back the cat's tongue with loose lips building ships designed to fair seas we skilled sailors have seen. Collectively deciding our destiny and it all starts by turning on the light. Greeting your skeletons. Open the door Love is waiting. Fall head over heels into yourself and catch this new, refreshing breath with true intent to figure out the rest.
By Matthew Hernandez6 years ago in Poets
The Painter
How long have you been feeling this way? Feeling like an incomplete painting you are yet to finish because the colors you've been given aren't quite right. As if mixing blue and red doesn't make purple, or red and yellow doesn't make orange. Putting the paintbrush away in forgotten storage to adopt another's finished forest. It feels nice being an extra in foreign paradise. The silver river shimmers and the gold sun gleams. Way the shade from an oak tree rests perfectly upon the grassiest green. "This heaven is home," you tell the mirror brushing away neon tears, smearing the smile that was never set. Waiting with "what's next" since this deceptive scene isn't the ends to your means. Leaving false scenery beautifully unique as you trace foreign track beliefs back to the little hell left incomplete. Awakened to a rusted brush stained with paint from an abandoned lover's veins, only now, things aren't the same. Finding that everything you hold near is insincere reflecting what you've always feared; eggshell skin with no yolk. Filled with weed smoke and heavy beer to hold your heart while you lay down with secular feels. The night fades to rising reality of loveless bed made. Returning to your abandoned heart to find it broken with scattered spare parts. No longer able to pick up where you left off. Retracing asymmetrical lines that are no longer defined by the passing time. Bypassing the very tests that betrayed what's in your breast. These neon seas fill as you feel what eyes cannot see. What physical comfort cannot comfort within your being. Ghost of running goodbyes from emotional height as you return to murder scene you didn't want to believe. Feeling the strongest muscle cramp as fingers run across true love's chalk mark heart. Forgotten vinyl chokes on repeating last note written in a book of unspoken emotion. The rebounding echo of a familiar voice drenched in pain responding to lack of remorse gave. Colors of same promises broke are splattered in buckshot patterned stain. Trying to believe this was all self-inflicted to cover up guilt and shame. Hands weigh heavy with weapon given by deceiver who taught you how to aim. Turned gun set towards brain pulled trigger BANG -
By Matthew Hernandez6 years ago in Poets
I Can't Remember
I can't remember How it felt When the blanket of alcohol covered us, numbing our senses and slowing the vinyl to a near standstill. Exchanging body heat and laughter till the sun broke the surreal feeling of being frozen in time. Sweet nothings falling off of stale wine lips and loose tongues. Entangled legs with fingers tracing small marks of deep infatuation leading to bleeding hearts. Picking up clothes carelessly tossed about only to guide us
By Matthew Hernandez6 years ago in Poets