My Pain, His Pain Poem

His eyes are lifeless.  That only makes it harder, so much harder.  If I ease his pain, who’s going to ease mine? I could pick him up in my arms and take him to the place he won’t return but then how do I get back?

I could tell someone to take him for me. I could, I could. But I can’t.  I can be the one to end his suffering, but that would only make mine grow.  Must I be so selfish to put my pain before his? If I take him to his death I would be taken myself to mine. I would be killing us both. He would go fast but I would go slowly.

His last feeling would be the cold touch of the needle, the bee sting on his back. His eyes will close and his soul will wander away. His pain will end and mine will just stay. Just stay. If I take him to the place of no return he will no longer be mine but of this earth.  He will no longer be my friend and my companion but a memory in the back of my head.

His eyes are lifeless but that only makes it harder. He barks at me and licks my hand begging me. If I ease his pain, who’s going to ease mine? 

Not Good Enough

By Andrea Fuguet 

The words start to flow effortlessly out of the pen as soon as it meets the paper. He knows exactly what to write, what to say. For once, his brain and the paper have no trouble communicating with each other. He contemplates his work while he takes his finger sentence by sentence, dissecting each word to find where the mistake lies.  He thinks it’s all wrong and punches the desk sending his Mickey Mouse coffee mug into the wastebasket.

He crumples it and gets ready to introduce it to the coffee mug and the other casualties that came from him attempting to write. His work lies in his hand waiting for its fate. Is it good enough? Is he good enough?

The self doubt and his insecurities start eating at his brain and his heart. They transform into his mother’s voice telling him he can’t do it. You’re not good enough Eric. Why go into writing Eric? Why didn’t you become a truck driver like your father? At least he makes a living.

He pictures his mother picking up his work in her hands. While her eyes scrutinize each word on the paper, her heart isn’t feeling them. She frowns and wrinkles her nose as if the manuscript smells like horse droppings and puts it down. It’s decent Eric, but not good enough.

It’s decent Eric, but not good enough. Those words replay in his head like an annoying, catchy song. How many times has he sat down with a pen in his hands ready to write something poignant, meaningful? But he’s not good enough. So everything he starts to write meets a tragic end at the bottom of his trashcan.

This particular piece of work wasn’t an exception.

He wipes the sweat on his brow and checks the time. Two a.m. He better go to sleep, he needs to give his mind and his mother a rest for the night. She would haunt him tomorrow as soon as he picks up his pen.

His wife, Eva, notices him go to bed next to her and the green light emanating from the alarm clock that notifies her of how late it is. She turns to him and caresses his hair softly like a mother would her child.

“Honey, did you finish your mother’s eulogy?” she asks already knowing the answer.

“Yes. It’s decent, But not good enough,” he says closing his eyes and turning his back to her.

Electrons and Protons

By: Andrea fuguet

The only thing we have in common is the blood that runs through our veins. You can even say we look a little alike though I will tell you I don’t see it and roll my eyes.  All the resemblance I see is the pale skin that we both have. I say he’s paler and he says I am suddenly we get into fight number one million (that’s probably accurate). My mom steps to mediate and calm us down before we end up calling each other names that aren’t exactly lovely.

We don’t agree on anything. We are polar opposites. I’m a proton and he’s an electron. I’m the sky and he’s the ocean. I’m a woman and he’s a man. He’s a man of logic and I’m a woman of emotions. He’s my brother and I’m his sister.  At times I would have sworn he didn’t have any emotions.  Only thing that can get a reaction out of him are the things that defy logic and he has, needs to explain them. Daniel questions everything even the simplest of things. The day I saw a tear leave his eye I knew he wasn’t made of ice he just pretends to be.  Emotions are for weak people and he has to be strong no matter what.

He’s studying to be a doctor. Science has become second nature to him like writing has become for me. His idea of TV consists of documentaries about history and science and messed up movies no one can understand and his idea of fun is going to the internet to find out what the hell was going in the director’s mind when filming the movie. Well, that and a cold beer with his closest friends and his girlfriend.

Daniel is the smartest guy I know he can tell you all about the smallest virus, about history and stuff that you haven’t even heard of and don’t really care to hear. He will tell you anyways because he thinks that this information is cool and you just have to know. You roll your eyes and hopes he shuts up (You also want a dictionary since you didn’t catch anything he said).

I’m a writer, a dreamer, an intellectual while he’s this logical creature obsessed with perfection. He wants everything, everybody to be perfect, to be beautiful, and to be unreal. He’s a perfectionist and at times extremely critical. The bad part? His annoying perfectionism is what makes him so good at whatever he does. He doesn’t stop until it’s perfect and in the end it is.

He’s not expressive at all. He won’t tell you he cares, or that something hurts him or bothers him. He bottles it up. When he tells you something that has some emotion he means it and you can help but keep it with you.

“He really hurt me bro. He broke my heart in pieces and I didn’t deserve that.” I cried helplessly.

“That’s because he’s stupid. You’re a queen and you need to know that,” he said staring at me in the eyes. “You need to believe you’re a queen. You’re better than you think.”

This from someone who told me a week earlier that I was adopted because there’s no way in hell we were related.  

The only thing we have in common is the blood that runs through our veins and the love that runs through our hearts. And that’s okay.

Short "stories"

This are a short "stories" I wrote for class
"That changes everything...."
His fear is rising in his spine and is transforming into small drops of sweat that escape his forehead at an increasing speed. His hands make a trip to his mouth and his nails encounter his teeth. They meet a bitter end as he bites them as if they are his favorite food and the world is running out of ingredients. You can see the skin now. He refuses to look at his hands. Seeing the remains of his once shiny, man manicured (as he calls it) nails made him more nervous. What other things will have to die? What other things does he have to give up now that life has played him such a mean trick? 
Granted, they are just nails and other people, not him, would be extremely excited that this happened to them. Not Hunter. Not at nineteen, when his life is at its peak and just beginning. Other people would be at stores shopping and planning for the big day. Not Hunter. Hunter was at home trying to balance his checkbook while promising the world to Jamie. Jamie so beautiful and fair like the way Shakespeare describes Juliet, a fair maiden with soft grey eyes and brown hair. Okay, Shakespeare didn’t describe her like that but what does he know about Shakespeare? Hunter is lost in his thoughts now. His hand is shaking so he returns it to his mouth.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor says stepping out of the room. “The C section went as planned. Come in to see your daughter.”
Her soft blonde hair, like her dad’s, and her grey eyes like her mom’s drown his fears into a pool of joy. No fear, no regrets. He is a dad now. And that changes everything.


"The Married Couple..."
Life wasn’t easy for the McLaren’s. George McLaren was the president of a large company his father founded. He was a trust fund baby or so they called him. His major duties involved delegating his responsibilities to the poor individuals with job positions less important than his. 
When he wasn’t dealing with tedious work related issues, like exploiting his employees, he was playing golf or hunting. Enjoy life to the fullest, living like you’ll die tomorrow sort of thing. He sounded like a cheap fortune cookie. The McLaren team, like George called it, was composed of two girls and two boys plus his wife. Mona McLaren was the definition of housewife or at least she tried her hardest to be. To Mona, life was about appearances, how others saw you and the amount of luxuries you had. Some said luxury others said overindulgence. No one understood the necessity to have a house with 12 bedrooms, 23 bathrooms and 10 kitchens. George understood that  the bigger the better. Bigger meant more successful, it meant happiness to himself and his family. For Mona it meant more space for her to clean her pain away. She would hide her resentment, her hatred for life and the empty feeling on the pit of her stomach in every surface she dusted, vacuumed and polished. She was a true housewife. Her resume said so. “I don’t need a maid”, she said, “I can do this on my own.” Every day for ten years, Mona painted on her face a fake smile full of pearly whites for everyone who came to her “humble” abode. The kids were oblivious of their mother’s unhappiness and the bitterness she harbored in her soul. They only opened their mouths to ask for what technology had decided to throw upon us that month. George was too busy with his 21 year old mistress to notice. He didn’t even noticed how his wife found out the day of their anniversary and how she pretended to ignore it. But Mona was a trophy wife she had a part to play. Mona cracked one day. As the blade hit and pierced through her veins full of life, she understood what she was giving away, a life full of pleasures. But she knew, yes she knew, they were just hiding the pain.

Soltando mis Espinas

By Andrea Fuguet

No quiero herirte con lo que escribo pero tienes que saber

Todo lo que has hecho y que ya no puedes deshacer

Yo se que las espinas no se deben tragar

Que las palabras hay que decirlas o te pueden asfixiar

Pero como hago yo para sacar años de desilusión

Y todas esas cosas que dijiste que aun guardo en el corazón

Si supieras la verdad que eres la culpable de mi frialdad

Tu actitud fuera distinta y no de superioridad

Si supieras lo que yo siento cuando me vienes abrazar

Que mientras más me alejo tú te quieres acercar

Pero es un poco tarde para que vengas a curar

Algunas heridas que por ti para siempre van a durar

Hubo un tiempo que te necesite que en mi había un vacio

Pero todo lo que encontré fue de ti el más helado frio

Te busque por mucho tiempo y también te espere

Pero ya no puedo hacerlo, quede sin fuerzas, me canse

Lo peor de todo esto es que aun espero tu aprobación

Que alguna vez me digas algo desde tu corazón

Pero la verdad es que tengo miedo de escuchar lo que digas

Pues como las rosas tus palabras tienen espinas

Me han pinchado muchas veces y me han hecho sangrar

Aunque ya a estas alturas ya no hay más que cortar

Ahora ya sé porque siempre me trataste diferente

Quizás para ti nunca fui lo suficiente

Tal vez querías que yo fuera perfecta y no lo fui

Tal vez querías grandeza y no fue así

Ya soy una mujer madura con mucho por crecer

Con logros y con metas que tengo que vencer

No soy la más musical ni la más inteligente

Pero sé que soy alguien entre toda tu gente

Ahora entre tú y yo solo existe falsedad

Con hipocresías y mentiras para no decir la verdad

Te dejo mis palabras por si algo te hacen pensar

Solo quería que las escucharas ya no las pude callar

Lo siento ser tan franca y hablar tan fríamente

Pero todo esto lo tuve guardado y lo tendré para siempre

Guitar Strings - poem

 His fingers lightly strumming the guitar

melody echoes music plays

songs of peace songs of hate

while I think of the strings

of the strings of love

The strings of my heart which no longer make a sound

chordless and broken silent and still

the musician wonders why he can't repair

those strings of love

His fingers softly play tune by tune

I stare and pray it'll be over soon

they sound so much alike and I can't help but fight

the memories that come

The guitar is dull with broken strings

the sound is wrong if you are not the one that sings

makes no sense makes me mad

but there's no strings for my guitar

His fingers continue with a life on their own

while I'm wrapped in the song that feels  too long

He doesn't know doesn't even have a clue

that I'm faraway traveling and thinking of you.

The Black Rose poem

By Andrea Fuguet

The beauty of the black rose she never noticed

It blossomed for her

A petal fell to the ground

She ignored it

while the rose withered

Other flowers were always more beautiful,

the gardenias are my favorite she thought

The black rose stood silent

for her attention she always fought

The sunflowers needed more water 

the dandelions needed more sun

what the black rose wanted

was a little bit more love

Another petal fell

 the black flower

was giving up

she still didn’t see her

she still didn’t know

The black rose got tired

of the love she never got

her last petal fell

since she always forgot

She ran to the black rose

willing her to live

She chose to ignore her

she didn’t notice the beauty of the black rose

until it was too late and she was gone.