Of painters

Somedays I wished I had been a painter
alone, in a room sketching sunsets
on an unknown village
by the sea.


To me, depression is not a blue
and rainy kind of day.

It is more like summer,
hot and with dead grass
and the hunger of
money fevers.

Count me such American,
but I am always third world.

When I am jobless,
I too wander in the cities
of my head.

I taste the staleness of
not having enough of bread.

At least, in painting,
I can live a muted existence.

My emotions, painted clear.

There is no need to explain a thing:

The birds on blue skies dive into
the sea with a crimson coating as if
burning in this beauty.

If it goes without saying,
then my career is already dead

and all the silence I do not say
reflects

 a thousand years of poetry.

12.26.2022

subtleties

A single clown
drowning in an ocean
making people laugh
to death.

An artist in a room
of torn fabric silks
creating beautiful paintings
that the world observes.

A musician in an empty street
performing to the wind
a soliloquy of pain
disguised as a masterpiece.


A poet in their room
writing little snippets of sonnets
trying to reach to her, his love,
a deep lakeside of words, of emotions.

A mother somewhere at work
busy pushing 18 hours at home
cooking meals that taste extraordinary.

Somewhere the meanings fizzle out
like a record player in a room of people
slowing skipping to the next song, skip
ping over lost thoughts
we forgot once.

12.23.2022.

Creating resolves

beautiful colors painted
on a crumbling house
filled with rats, mold, rot.

we are very much like these
places we find so pleasing.

placing fake windows over
broken glass views.

engraving love poems
onto dead wallpaper.


the cities are full of such scamming
creating long and open roads
with skyscrappers stacked in advertisements.


Are we such like robots
feeling synthetic blood clots
filled up in our cold hearts?

A weekend in this living consists of
paying bills and empty bank cards
where you are now today
bewildered by the freedom of the sun,
the warmth on us.

Never you mind how much you will have,
in the future already in deathbeds.

Focus on right now, the love you have,
willing to give, or take.

 

12.21.2022

symphany of the wild

Nothing is better than knowing you are here
with me as I struggle through the cold
the warmth of your kindness ignites us both
as we journey this incredible experience
together
our lives, racing through the universe
at the speed of light
passing through the darkness and the shadows
illuminating against the planets
cold and icy under a burning, dying star
our love is such of mutual resemblance
taking forms of silent breaks,
the unmentioned soloist inbetween the notes
in a musical falling down the eardrums
like a waterfall ending to the base of our hearts
we are the silence inbetween those aquatic notes
of teardrops speaking lines of rudimentary codes
i know
you are the one that hears my rhythms, singing
inbetween the words i never say
our love, like a sunday summer in the rainclouds
on an everlasting field of flowers,
a small puddle ripples
a novel of our harmonic emotions.

12.11.2022

A hundred years we trifle

 

 

piercing through the night
is the everlasting veil of heaven
like the sun always here
observing.

i am just a man
without his coat of pride
amidst this rain of guilt.

My sins are labeled on my skin,
I suffer rotting flesh.

If only angels can feel my pain
there among the stars
they feel the love of God.

To us, all life is but a test
we last
enduring brief mortality.

How would they know what its like
surrounded
like the air, this intoxicating evil.

Alive I want to fight, and steal,
and take, and kill, and mock,
and drink this alcohol, and yet
hold on, to love above
the need for drugs in lungs
and veins and pupils red.

How would they know.

A single day of cold hunger.

A hundred years we trifle
before the doors of heaven.

A hundred years to learn
to love instead of hate
and give up evil ways.

Dear Lord, you know,
living is so difficult--
alone, we drop dead into a corner.

Our bones remain forever.

10.19.22

The Silence I call music

 

I don't know about you,
or the amount of pain you carry
or left,
all I know is how time grinds us equally
on our bones, this earth, our breathes
evaporating briefly
--and the hunger.

All I need to know is you are here
too very much alive with me
some time.

Maybe you are blind
but at least your heart is also troubled.

Maybe you are impaired,
but your mouth can speak of love.

Or hate.

It all matters what you crave.

In my time I learned to give up what I am,
all the things that took more of space
and gave others worry in the brain.

I learned to breathe the minutes.
I counted when you left me.
I record all things in my feelings.

More than sentimental pride, I gave up on life,
on trying to be more than I am.

I just sit now and enjoy the silence
upon the autumn leafs changing
hearing others walking.

10.09.2022

W E L C O M E

All Poems are original. Feel free to share or use this as a resource. You can't use for commercial means since these are already being used by me in official publications. You may use these in your commercial project, as long as its not the main thing being sold (i.e. in your movie, scripts, etc). You just can't sell the actual poem by itself. That's my job. For all other stuff, do what you want --Villanueva-Laghetto.

Use the Archive or Label Tabs to read a poem.

He Made

 

I told my parents that
I want to give up on life.

That, there is nothing more for me to do
than to wander somewhere else
and die.

    Oh why do I have to break their hearts?


My brother called me on the weekday
inside prison.

He told me to keep my head up
because

Most things that I have now
are not even broken.

I'm just tired of this worry,
you know.

Stressing all day if I need this
perplexing over sickness
concerning work and money.

I told him I just finished
about six months of this insanity.

Isnt it about time that I woke up
and notice the dust of my skin
fading like the afternoon.

I said:
man, am I tired of repeating conversations
being in the center of every excuse
living only for the weekend.

Rather I become complete
without any part of myself holding on
to bills, and things of chains.

Rather I be free
of any earthly sentiment including
the delusion that one day Ill find peace.

There is no peace without God
and
all along
there has been no sign of God because
all along
I have shut my eyes and ears to faith
thinking
happiness is something I create.

The Lord rebukes me saying
his dying grace is mine
the moment I was made.

So concerning the world
and all those in hatred loathing on me,
how ironic would it be
to watch me smile and laugh and still give praise

 for every single thing.

-Villanueva

08.20.20

Filth rodents

 

Do you not know
that the biggest enemy
is yourself

your destructive habits
your selfish needs
your heart of pride.

Of all the things in life
we decide to be so petty

spitting arguments not poetry.

All this because of evil
we do not welcome
and yet
do not dare acknowledge.

In us is a love like campfires
that we must not let burn out.

These harsh winters bring long
nights,
long fights,
    our fangs biting dead
mice.

08.12.2022

Bought with money

 

Just remember, to the people,
an artist is a stranger.

To all life that builds, and
needs --
the very least will be of love
        of poetry.

I remember too often about Twain,
living his days in simpler days,
even then in cabins, always desolate

living his days in a world that forgets.

I think often is this how great people live?
Always in a town, a country, a time,
too blind and knowing what they say?

A poet is not such like people,
whom chatter nothing in the markets.

A book of parchment is so precious,
it's like refined gold and silver
woven into pages
worth more than a day of eating
breadsticks
bought with money.
                -V I L L A N U E V A
07.01.2022

Twilight Theory

 

I live forever in the twilight,
in the peace of late nights
with the water and the crickets.

I take that feeling with me,
on busy street stops, on buses,
into bookstores.

I hear often the others, loud,
barking like dogs, the harsh reality.

I hear neighbors screaming from windows
having novel conversations.

I hear the couple drama
tossing plate words into the air,
shattering in emotions.

I hear the egomatics, in their cars,
turning corners smearing asphalt
howling with their music and engine.

I have to listen to the groaning,
the whimpering of pain, the needy.

This is why I love the mornings,
except for roosters, the animals
sleep in barn stables.

When they wake up, please excuse me,
but they trample over all things.

There's no easy way to say this--
that they bother me completely.
                -V I L L A N U E V A
06.27.22

Knowledge is for the kind

 

Truly we live apart from greatness
in a world in darkness
observing the light dimming
between the fabric of the windows.

We choose, to hate, to scoff at good things.
We depart, leaving common senses.

No more than primates like our theories
we remain observing the bookshelves,
the dust.

The noble furniture is torn,
the silver plates, stolen.

So too do we consider life--
a survival of our greed, the ego.

If you must take, remember,
someone else might have needed too.

Alas, the words of poetry remain
in the air above an unplayed piano.

All the good things in life, in wisdom,
are like mountains in lonely valleys.

A gardener is here and gone--
the roses sleep beneath the dirt,
the seeds awaiting love.
                -V I L L A N U E V A
06.27.22

death finds you and me

 

i save my tears for sadder days
always at the edge of hope
we live.

i refuse to see you dying
thinning out your skin
like snakes.

i live
forever in the spring
you know, just know
age doesnt mean a thing to me.

the young are elsewhere in their dreams
the older asleep at three
times over the speed limit im free
swearing onto ditches, the irony.
                -V I L L A N U E V A
05.29.22

Ageless

 

RUINED CASTLES
SITTING ON THE EDGE OF MOUNTAINS
ON THE CLIFF WHERE MANY COMPLETED
ARE BROKEN.

TOO MANY TEETH SPEAK OF DECIEVING
USING WORDS THAT VIBRATE MARROW.

THIS DAY, AS ALL OTHERS,
MUST END WITH US IN WAITING.

THE NIGHT LOOMS AHEAD THE CRIMSON
BRINGING WOMEN, TAKING CHILDREN.
                -V I L L A N U E V A
05.29.2022

As a rock

 

I have concluded thus
that I will never leave my room.
I am
not like you
in wanting to go out
to make a penny cent :
or two.
Neither to climb a mountain
feeling frostbite on my foot.

I would rather sell my things
and live with nothing but a book.
I would rather be alone
with a paper-pencil tool.
Even if you tried to comfort me,
out of petty pain - whatever have you;
 

still Ill be an artist, as a writer,
through and through.        

                -V I L L A N U E V A

04.16.22

Regarding kneecaps.

 

Perhaps I am delusional
as all artist are in life.
I write poems making color
out of black ink on white paper.

I write nothing out of feelings
that speak in silence, yet screaming
causing heart-pounding hallucinations
to the skin, rising thin hairs --
in love confessions.

Some say I play so loosely with this topic,
of tossing death and loneliness so often
back and forth onto a tennis court
you're watching.

Who am I if not a corpse that's rotting?

One day you will see me, unearthed,
my teeth, my arms, the shattered
kneeCAPS.

How much different is a poem,
laying in a bookshelf, a book open,
its pages reading, "death becomes us."

How offensive that you found my thoughts,
relating.

Truly, and I mean this,
you have yet to know me much entirely.

You call me names I have timely clarified.

You call me things, about words,
of poems I have long ago explained.

Have you never read me first?

The poems of a highschool romeo,
speaking to the world
how love is so damn beautiful,
it's hard to be so formal.

                -V I L L A N U E V A

04.14.22

Paper Skins

 

If being rich
is your only dream
then ask now
what is living?

In this earth, we leave nothing
having metal bands decay
over finger bones in dirt.

The dead were young like you
seeing colors in the sky, the night.

They are all there in the ground:
the kings, the loved, the scorned.

Of all the fighting done in life,
what for?

All of us are bones, renting paper skin.

Know now no one rules a thing;
the young, the old, the yet-lived.

The dead before us tell these things,
in their bones, exhumed, the suffering.

                 -V I L L A N U E V A

03.15.22