I Regret Being Slapped.

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I Regret Being Slapped.

Ulises Vargas 

October 4, 2025. 


Am I supposed to feel happy 

When the rain lets up:

Leaving me sopping and wet;

Happy that, at last, 

The abuse is done?


Scars cover me;

Memories, they overlay life 

The pain never stopped:

It shaped me


Internalized torture 

Brought out the worst 

In how I act and interpret 

Among myself and others 

Top Poems of the Year.

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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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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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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