Biography of Ray Quesada
I need to figure out how to truly be cool, before not being cool becomes the cool thing to do...
I havn't been on the site regularly in quite some time. I pretty much had stopped writing altogether after a series of rather unfortunate events, and even more significantly, a series of realizations i had about life and about being human in general. By the way, I'm going to leave my old bio below, in parentheses. I was probably 23-ish when I first wrote the original bio, and then 27 when I found myself in Arizona and added onto it. I'm leaving the old bio and all the old poems I suddenly do not care much for all posted on the site, so the contrast between my old self and the person I've become may be seen. Currently I've been in a perpetual state of self-criticism, and've been trying to convince myself that the past really is done and over with, and that even though I feel I may be one of the biggest hypocrites ever, perhaps I still can become a good person, deep down to the bone, and not just half of a good person. " I'm not a good person, ask anyone who knows me." , a wise young man once sang.
I used to truly believe, delusionally as it sounds, that I was going to be the greatest writer who ever lived. Ever. In all of human history. Me. What the actual hell was I on? ? ? When I first came to that conclusion I was probably barely 21 years old. I had probably barely read maybe 50 or 60 books in my entire life, I had barely read any of the great poets... At least I was enthusiastic, I suppose. 60 books may sound like a lot to a nonreader, but there are A LOT of books out there...it is called Books-A-MILLION, not Books-A-Hundred. 50 books was probably an appetizer for somebody like, say, Terence McKenna. And that was on top of him writing entire books as well.
Perhaps a few living people on this planet would tell you I was the most well read person they knew, but then again I also tried very hard to be that person in the first place. Its not like bookworms, or even pseudo-bookworms for that matter, are commonplace. I've been told that I'm notoriously hard on myself, but that's just because my friends didn't know me as well as I knew myself. When i first began my quest I pretty much knew I wasn't as charismatic as Jim Morrison, or as enigmatic as Rimbaud, but I wanted to be sooo so badly that after a few years of lugging books and notebooks around EVERYWHERE I went, developing a massive love for alcohol, and a narcissistic personality to mask my fear and anxieties, even I forgot I was just in character kind of. Every drunk asshole thinks they know everything, especially 22-year-old drunk assholes. I searched for arguments, I searched for despair, I searched for some sort of originality within myself, never sensing my own natural originality, because I was far too focused on, paradoxically, being the MOST original, the most unique. And that behavior, PARADOXICALLY, is the most cliche. I read my own stuff now and occasionally wonder, " Who wrote this? Who REALLY wrote this? "
Being clever is easy... But simply BEING and not needing accomplishments, validation, a past, a future, any armour at all...it's tough. Even waking up, truly Waking Up is the easiest thing in the world to do...but not drifting back into that beautiful dream you were in, that's different. My advice, for what its worth, to anyone resonating with these sequences of words...if you're lucky enough to eventually find yourself on an amazing adventure with fantastic people by your side then smile, laugh, and play, but if you see Medusa, close your eyes or she'll turn you to stone. And if the Hat Man visits you...you'll have to face him alone. In other words, you can't fight fire with fire.
(((((***Please take a moment to vote 1-10 on any of my poems you read. I don't think I'll have an accurate idea of the quality of my work until each poem has a decent amount of votes***)))))
(((((- -I want to say thank you to every one of my friends who have visited my page/voted and commented on my poems, and thanks also to any of the poets on here who've done the same, whether I am friends with you on here or not - its a very satisfying feeling when people enjoy my writing. I've had a lot of positive feedback so far, which only inspires me all the more to keep writing.
For those who just now have stumbled upon my page, I'm Ray. I was born in Ohio, where I wasted my teenage years, and now out of guilt, write constantly. :) - I lived in Myrtle Beach, SC, for around 8 years and I just moved out to Arizona in January this year. Nothing like a change of scenery and a change of pace to bring your soul out of hibernation. I've been writing poetry somewhat seriously since age 20, more seriously for about the past 2 years.
Besides poetry i like to play guitar, write songs here and there, etc. i find inspiration in silence by the ocean just as much as i find it when i'm drinking and shooting pool in bars with my friends.
-I used to fall in and out of love with my own life on a daily basis...but as of late, I've mostly just been in love with it.
I have made friends on poemhunter with some very exceptional poets, and it seems I find inspiration a lot now in reading the work of others. I admire the poets who just let it all out, who trust in their own voice. Nietzsche said, “Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.” Thanks again, best wishes.)))))
Ray Quesada Poems
When you finally realize your life is a death sentence in every breath your eyes and mind
The Punk, The Monk, And The World
My friends and my family scattered across the land of America; land of the Lost there's a shortage of love - a shortage of water a shortage of food - the temperatures hotter
A Homeless Man
Those cold hands sheltered in his lap... A simple life chosen to live, perhaps? Could no bed be offered though? Not even a chair?
A Poem Sneaks Into The Room
A poem comes abruptly – A poem Sneaks into the room and hides behind the chair Or the couch, or the curtain And then pounces through the air
As The Rain Hits The Leaves
With no inspiration or passion in heart O, where is a person ever to start With hardly a friend in this mysterious land Is there hope for growth
Two Autumn Leaves
Though we both lay here together we're a hundred worlds apart different memories; different demons different Spirits; different Hearts
Epsilons In Nail Salons
Go to work, get paid then spend it fast You need more stuff cuz things don't last forever. - Hurry! Run to the store! Corporate slaves and Wal-mart whores
Creature Of Wings
Song bird, intrigue me flow forth your wondrous tune intrinsically, your music pours from you
On Stars That Twinkle
When Mind is baked, time Thinkles When it rains, the puddles Plinkle
And Time, A Burning Flame
When I was young and playful the future seemed so bright there were songs that we sung and days were always nice
The River Is Never The Same
Buddha Universe of Good Embodiment of Peace, purely understood All things come, and instantly have passed away Right Now; Tomorrow; Yesterday
A Secret Shade Of Blue
Pink is just a shade of Blue with Purple in between And Yellow is a shade of Pink, and, the color that is Green,
Hamsters in a hamster world hamster boys and hamster girls drive their cars and go to work every day the unspoken 'social contract' is why they stay
I stare into a lonely nighttime puddle 'Don't Worry' tattoo'd on her right wrist; 'Be Happy' on the left -She puts out a cigarette
Response To Maya Angelou
And a man in a room can be a caged beast
where Death himself has come 'long to feast
upon his soul, so he's never pleased
And he longs for what? He can't be sure
For a man in a room can get up and leave
but chooses to sit and cry on his sleeeve
A slave by his own choosing, but he will not believe
when you tell him theres something more pure