Original Poem Title: “Bulky”

Another set, another rep, another mile.

I am in an identity conundrum
stepping in-between fandoms
of the curvaceous and athletic
self-acceptance and aesthetic.

The perspective gets complex.

I see nothing wrong with self-love
when it’s not at another’s expense
but if love means feeding n addiction
then the answer becomes “it depends.”

On this journey,
every bite is a rep in the other direction
processed foods trying to kill my discretion.
Push and pull until I feel the burn
fighting to love this skin in return.

When I look in a mirror
and see who is standing there,
I remember what little love I started with,
and the adequacy I longed for.

Someday I’ll find or make it,
but for now,
I lace up my sneakers
another set,
another rep,
another mile,

once more.

Originally published at .


POETRY

Original Poem Title: “King Us.”

Photo by on

We’ve our ducks in a row
and we’ll raise you another thousand
defeats before we ever
choose to throw in this towel.

Luck be on our side,
although without it
think we’ll be just fine
to fight tooth and nail.

Breathing hard at the home stretch
where thought and behavior connect
banking on the trust of a realized dream
ambition is not a want, but a need.

I hope your heart yearns for more
and opportunity
ding-dong-ditches your door,
just enough for you to get up
and see it running away
so that you must chase after it.

I pray for your hardship.
I hope for your struggle.
I expect your new self
to be of tempered steel.

Whether or mind,
body, heart, or soul,
why give up
if you still have a goal?

Originally published at .


Original Poem Title: “Mental Descriptor Pt. 2”

Anxious, dehydrated, and full of thought.

It’s 4am on a Saturday morning.
I’m rudely spurned from sleep by dehydration,
and after quenching my thirst,
I am forced awake,
because… that’s what happens.

I drink water, and I wake up.

I’m 21 floors up in the air
and I am lost in thought about
digging my heels in a
concrete jungle
with unfavorable weather.

I don’t dream much.
Sleep to me is the equivalent
of willingly being knocked
unconscious for hours
only to wake up
gambling to feel okay afterward.

I think I must be dying.

A pain, sharp as a jolt, travels
like lightning in my nerves
and…


Original Poem Title: “Things I Said At 1 A.M.”

The stories leading up to my vulnerabilities.

“Don’t get any ideas,”
I whisper to him after a day of
running him in circles,
knowing full well I struggle to commit.
I don’t deserve someone as good as this.
“I won’t, promise,” he swears.

“You do snore,”
I sneer after he shakes his bed
because he fell in his dreams again
after he failed to fall out of love
with someone who couldn’t stand him.
“I hate you,” he laughs.

“Come closer, and give me your hand,”
I say as we wait for another train
in a precarious winter blizzard.
My hands are like furnaces;
a home, made just for you in…


Original Poem Title: “The Mind Of Someone With ADD”

Sleep to me is the equivalent of being willfully knocked unconscious.

It’s 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
I’m rudely spurned from sleep by dehydration,
and after quenching my thirst,
I am forced awake,
because that’s what happens.

I drink water, and I wake up.

I’m 21 floors up in the air
and I am lost in thought about
digging my heels in a
concrete jungle
with unfavorable weather.

I don’t dream much.
Sleep to me is the equivalent
of being willfully knocked
unconscious for hours
only to wake up
gambling to feel okay afterward.

I think I must be dying.
A pain, sharp as a jolt, travels
like lightning in my nerves
and…


Original Poem Title: “Patched Up”

“They say if you write in a journal, you can be more in touch with yourself. I really don’t wanna be.”

This afternoon
at the pier
I had my choice of vice in one hand
and nothing in the other.

I left my feet dangling in the water
airing out my mental laundry
They say if you write in a journal
you can be more in touch with yourself
and to be honest,
I really don’t wanna be.

I’m scared of what I’ll find.

I’ve been putting my fire out there
and all I ever really feel is put out.
Since then, I run around with an icy heart
and winter’s the only thing that feels chilly to me.

I guess…


Original Poem Title: “Rats”

My home is no place for rodents like you.

I had rats in my space.
I kept you around for what I hoped
would have been a very long time.
But rodents don’t live very long.

Despite always giving you life
you bite the hands that
heal you, feel you, appeal to you.

And how you gonna tell me
you don’t want me to feel
like I’m walking on eggshells
when I walked through fire for you?

I let you into my space, my homes
shared with you my iron sanctuary
and let you meet my darling dears
was I too good to you?

And yet you hold back…

Kirk S. Pineda

26-year-old MHC-LP. Focused on realistic poetry, fitness, fat loss, REBT, Stoicism & Buddhism, EDM, resilience, and personal brand.

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