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Hello Stranger.

I don’t know you, I know of you, but I can not say that I could tell you your own favorite songs from the radio, or your favorite place to be. I don’t know you.

And yet, here I am, day in day out, asking you to know me.
Asking you, bringing myself out here, pleading (essentially)
for you to obsessively consume whatever I put out here,
to hang on to every word and dissect while digesting
pulling out my strands of thought to dance in the limelight of your eyes.

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Isn’t that selfish?
and yet, how do I repay the kindness shown?

Not very well, that much is true.

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She doesn’t want riddles
she want’s the mexican work ethos.

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That ain’t me tho, huh?

nah.

I was the kid that made room in his heart for you.
The dad had the work ethic,
he worked and slaved harder than any of em,
built this house with his own two hands
for me,
grand column pillars and resonant tiles
and white as heaven’s clouds.

And what have I done?
Where are my grand deeds upon this earth?

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When I was a child
my aunt’s spoke to me,
all of them, some of them, one in particular,
the brother’s lover on my father’s side
said this to me:

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“Don’t be a Martinez.”

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