Open Books, All of You.

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Open Books, All of You.

Ulises Vargas 

September 30, 2025. 


How gravely, 

I wish to see others 

Without understanding them;

To coexist with monsters and lovers,

Without knowing them 


Not a single person left remains abstract 

Pots of poison and honey 

Somehow as predictable 

As the page’s next line 


From the first impression, 

Their whole character is dispelled 

And every conversation 

Feels bland with certainty

And I’m morbidly aware 

Top Poems of the Year.

Frosted Cocaine.

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                                                                    Frosted Cocaine. Ulises Vargas January 2, 2024.  Cocaine, take away the pain.  Feel that icy blizzard like hard rain.  Pick me up from sadness and take me away.  I have nothing to gain but happiness,  Everything to lose and descend into madness.  But today, take the pain away.  Numb my face like a glass mask.  Use your power to cover and glaze the past.  Give me life, for every dollar I spend.  Give me life, for every wound you mend.  Save me from insanity,  And bring me to serenity.  Finding peace, piece by piece.
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No Good For Me.

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                                                                     No Good For Me.   Ulises Vargas January 25, 2025. You’re no good for me.  I hooded my eyes, blind to the dark flood of negativity.  Your love was my burden to bear.  I never meant to hurt you, not at all.  But I couldn’t stand the abuse and stand tall.  Selfishly, you dragged me down with you.  While I tried my best to fix you.  Now, I’m deleting all the pics of us.  Memories torture me beyond dusk. All we had was lust.  A betrayal to what could’ve been.  I thought you were my life and I was yours,  But it was just the sex.  Now I’m free, and I don’t know how to be.  Or who I am or who I used to be.  You defined me, rewrote my own story.  So don’t contact me, rath...
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One hundred selves.

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One hundred selves.  Ulises Vargas  November 29, 2025.  Liars. All of us are liars.  Don’t try to lie and say that you’re not a liar, either.  Let me ask you: does everyone in your life know the same stories as each other? Do they all know the same person, or have you shaped their perspective of you?  Does your mother know the travesties you’ve committed?  Does your lover know your daydreams and fantasies?  Do your colleagues know how you party?  No–no to all of those questions.  Yet, each one of them supposedly knows you.  Each one of them is wrong,  because you lie to each one of them.  They all think that they have you solved; they all think that they know the real you.  To one hundred people,  there are one hundred versions of yourself.  Are any of them real? Is it really the same person who makes those one hundred selves,  or is each self a whole different person?  Regardless, how, then, can o...
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