It takes me
perhaps a few minutes,
at most,
to write a poem.

In the brief instant
between
creation and publication,
I am convinced
that this poem cannot be
improved.

But note,
it is never the claim,
that the poem is
any good.

I write
so that I may express
what I had genuinely felt
for a few moments.

Although reciprocation would be ideal
it does not have to be all or nothing.
If I can be
as a single flower is to the meadow
then I am content.

I was fine
with waiting;
the breeze
of melancholy
carries with it
the distant smell
of blossoming flowers.

If waiting means
I can spend my time
imagining those flowers,
whose nectar,
whose petals,
entrance me with such splendour,
then I do not mind waiting.

At times, I envy
those who chose
to pluck from the ground
the flowers they had cherished.
But I...
Alas.

How I long for
a past
I did not have.

There will be others
after you.

But
none are
as you are
to me.

The drops of mist from crashing falls
descend upon my face
and scatter in the whirling breeze
to dance in playful grace.

The most stalwart of loves
go unfulfilled;
a brilliant,
unfettered affection,
purified
by enduring heartache.

They are as
stubborn leaves in Autumn,
clinging to a branch.
As soon as the season is finished,
they shall be pruned without exemption,
yet they persist bitterly.

A timid flower
comes to full bloom
under the brush
of the summer breeze.

Similarly,
I have blossomed
by the warmth
of another's heart.

Bruised knuckles
and
broken hearts,
with the smell
of *****
in the back of the car.

At night,
I have a terrible urge
to be sentimental.
It's as if my insecurities
are a Datura bud,
lying dormant in the day,
but flowering under the moon.

how i have
wracked my brain
on how to write
a simple poem
about a tree
lit by the moon.

nature is writhe
with such gentle beauty.
and yet
i cannot even start to
entice its essence
to settle as
a line or two on paper.
where beauty begins,
i cannot say.

to write of beauty
is to remember a dream;
to recall a thought
only half way through.
i cannot describe in words
that which is before me.
all i know is
that it is beautiful.

To eat alone
is to think
of another.

My footsteps,
like finger tips
on a piano,
play a
lonely song.

Emerald pools
that pour into
cascades of foaming white,
thrashing about;
waterfall.

if men are divided
as either
sheep or wolves,
then i already know
what is to become of me.

when my time comes,
when the slaughter is nigh,
i will stick out my neck
and tell them,
do it properly.

i am too tired
to do otherwise.
i find it preferable
to end this farce;
life will go on,
with or without sheep;
with or without wolves.

Every ship
leaving the port,
are each
a metaphor.

To the
brave who
embark,
how often
do you cast
a backward gaze?

To those
who depart
for other shores,
I think of you
daily.
Hourly.

When shall it be my turn
to cast a backward gaze
on those I leave behind?

At dawn,
I comforted myself
by saying
there is still time.

At twilight,
I know
it had not been so.

To seek refuge
in the time that is left
is folly;
better to have done
than to have
thought of doing.

Everyday, I am tired,
Oh so tired
I might fall asleep at work
And get myself fired~

I have known
no loneliness
like that of
a Saturday night.

I glance at
an empty seat
an unanswered text
and a cold cup of coffee.

You didn't have to say yes
to a date.

The starfish
must throw out
its stomach
to digest
its food.

In this sense,
the starfish and I
are similar.

To learn,
I must
throw out my brain;
it is only through
foolishness
that I truly
begin to understand.
But how many lessons,
once learned,
can be used?

My thoughts
whirl about
like a sudden
gust.

You are
to me,
as the restless wind
is to the
petals of a flower;

fleeting,
out of reach,
ungraspable.

A love
that blossoms
like a flower
before a storm.

Will you see it
before it is stripped
of its petals?
Before it is trampled
and ripped out by its roots?

I was thinking about you the other day,
and decided that
I wanted to write about you
one last time.

Do you remember the letter you gave me
on Valentine's day?
It's a funny story, actually.
It's still in its little bottle.
There's no way I can get it out,
I've tried so many times,
I've nearly torn the letter to bits
by picking at it with a pair of tweezers.
I can smash the bottle,
however that letter was written over
4 years ago.
How can I bring myself to read something
that is addressed to someone,
that at the time,
you had said you loved?
To read it now feels as though
I am intruding on something
I have no business in seeing.

Near the end, do you remember when you told me
that I had reminded you of your father?
I have never felt more ashamed of myself.
I was crushed.
But did I ever apologize?
I am not sure.
I am so sorry.
Why did I make you feel that way,
I wonder.

Do you remember a couple years ago,
out of the blue,
I invited you out for dinner
after not speaking to you for years?
When you agreed,
I was ecstatic,
I looked forward to it the entire week,
but then you said you couldn't go
and that ******* broke my heart.
For just one night,
I wanted to show you
tenderness.
I had written a letter,
I worked on it for weeks,
it was page upon page
of things I was sorry for.
And you never got it.
You said we'd reschedule,
but I have not received a message from you since,
and I did not want to pester you.
But I've fixed some of my bad habits.
People now say that I am kind.
****
I wish that I could have shown you that.

I remember you telling me that
you had hung all the poems
and letters I had given you
on your bedroom wall
for your entire family to see.
I wonder if they are still there?
I hope not.
You should throw them all away.
I used to keep a copy of every poem
and letter I ever wrote,
but I've since ripped them to shreds.
They were terrible,
honestly.
Please throw them away.
What I regret most is
that I used to sign letters with my name.
I no longer do that.
What was important to know was not that Leo had wrote a letter,
rather,
that the letter had been written.
Leo has nothing to do with it.
Perhaps
knowing it was Leo who wrote it
would make it seem
cheaper or
worse than it actually is.
Or at least that is what you made me think
while I was eating dinner alone
on a certain night a couple years ago.

I am happy for you,
I really am.
It makes me feel so nostalgic
seeing you in love.
Your boyfriend seems like a nice guy
although I have no idea what he is saying.
Perhaps it is time I learn a language other than English...

And with that, I bid you, adieu.
Perhaps we will cross paths again,
perhaps not!
But this will be the last time
I ever write about you.

The pale blue
that filters through
my closed curtains;
the sting of light
as it pries open
my eyelids,
one at a time;
today, i am alive.

It seems that
there are some lessons
that can only be learned
the hard way.

my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.

Yesterday
My classmate died
In a hit
and


run.

I scour the local obituaries,
And yet I cannot find his name.
Though I knew little of him,
I have little reason to forget him.
Perhaps, if I grow older
I will stand at his grave
And somberly ponder
At that epitaph of squandered youth.

My heart is in
a terrible state,
so I choose
to roam this city,
to ward off boredom
and the questions
I ask myself
about you
before I sleep.

I am ready to drift
into the endless night,
as if it were an ocean.
Like waves of the tide,
my dreams will wash over me.
But I do not mind.
In them are
the reflection of
the stars.

It is only at night
that the constellations can be seen.
Here, I can find my way.
Which dream,
which constellation,
shall I see tonight?
Who will appear
by my side?

What wonders a night of sleep can do,
if you can fall asleep.

What had burned
turned to ash.
In the end,
even a violent blaze
turns to nothing.
Which flame lasts forever?

I give ashes
as proof of what once was.
Judge me, as you like,
but know the dust before you
was once with form;
warm and bright.

A heaving dog struggles to its feet.
Streaks of
the sun,
egg yolk,
lemonade,
coalesce in foam.
I look it in the eye
as it limps away.

Seeing her was the same as
walking outside
and discovering
that the sky is blue
and finding it
absolutely beautiful.

I wish to experience life
as honestly as possible.
I have had enough of
my longings for
permanence and certainty.

Alas, must I stake a claim
on the sky to find fulfilment?
Do I need to own it all
to love it?
Should I resent those who
look upon the same sky as I?
Envy the clouds which
occupy it?

The sky was there before
me
and will be there after
me.
And that is a comforting thought,
I suppose.

The emptiness that
ravages my being
would be filled
in an instant
with just a glimpse
of that smile.
Even if it were fleeting,
just the sight of it
could justify
endless solitude.

Even in bitterness
and deep despair,
I know I am on the doorstep of
great love.

Who, when asked to prove
the genuineness of their affection,
would draw back?
If asked to suffer for their ideals,
who would renounce them?

If I am suffering,
it is for a great cause,
it is to prove that I can live purely,
and feel purely,
unable
unwilling
to compromise
on fundamental matters
of both soul and heart.

In view of others,
I am of little consequence.
It is as though I am
a dandelion seed,
left to the whim of a storm,
or a bleeding lamb
encircled by a pack of
prowling wolves.

I can be torn apart easily,
flesh from bone,
soul from body,
for practically free.
The smallest cuts would easily
bleed me for all I have.
My heart is crushed by the simplest things,
just as I can be crushed
by the simplest of men!
One word, that is all I need,
for a sleepless night.
My imagination is wild,
and needlessly cruel.
In my own head,
I've imagined different ways that
I will be humiliated, hurt and killed!
At night, my insecurities run amok
and race through my head
with an incessant screeching,
carving into the inside of my skull
new ideas, new doubts about myself
which, by daybreak,
I learn are actually true!
Ha, it's ******* pathetic!

They are wolves!
And I am to be slaughtered!
Almost as if it's for show.
It happens daily.
I wonder at this point
is there any limit to my embarrassment?
Won't someone deliver me from my own shortcomings
and faults?
I wait, but all that come are
wolves,
tearing away at me, once again,
for another night!
Oh, how I tire of it!
I know I am inadequate,
of little physical worth,
but must they be so brazen about it?
I wish to be alone sometimes,
but I am equally terrible company.
The sobbing,
the rambling,
I am a boring person
who has earned his ridicule!

Sometimes, in retaliation,
I try to cast away the ghosts
by writing poetry.
But even I struggle to say it is worth reading!
A disgrace to the art, if I do say so myself.
But don't get me wrong,
it is not nothing to be called a disgrace,
even terribleness must have its maestros.
Perhaps, I am one!
I have found my place then!
In the *******!
Ha. Ha. Ha.

The longevity of my existence
is seemingly at the mercy of others.
How little would it take it to
forget someone like me?
If it is wished,
I can be snuffed out,
put out
like embers
and turned into ash,
it would be so easy,
they could do it
without even knowing.
Who will remember me then?
And what will they remember?
Someone who could be stamped into the dirt
and disintegrate, like crumbs of refuse.
Perhaps it would be more merciful
to forget me than
to be remembered as that!

When my feelings are hurt, I always retreat.
And where do I retreat?
Of course, it is here,
into poetry,
where I can trade shame
for mediocrity,
where I can pretend that
I am above it all
because I write a little bit
of **** prose,
some garbage that equates to
nothing more than
whimpering.
You sometimes have to laugh at yourself.

But one day,
I will be better.
The wolves will still
feed upon me.
But I will be better.

During the time
in between
my two most recent mosquito bites,
we had met
and you had left.
Tonight,
I pensively trace over
the brim of the
first mosquito bite of the year,
reminiscing.

For a second,
suspended by the beam
of a street lamp,
a snowflake
sputters to the ground.

Above all things,
I know bitterness
because I was born
without having been asked.

What does one think of
in order to fall asleep?
All that I care to think about
keeps me awake.

By writing love poems,
I have learned
that I only know how
to express
sadness,
not love.

I could write
on emotion alone.
Through bitterness,
I sought beauty.
With rage,
I expressed
the torrent within.
All was aflame,
all had burned brightly.

But now,
it is naught but a flicker.
I pass time quietly,
as the ash of past emotions
blanket the landscape with grey.
I am tired.
I fear I may
never recover.

I no longer love you,
but in recollection
I would still use
as many words as before.

For a short while, I thought that she
Would stay here by my side
As she would wait for you to come,
Passing hours with a sigh

The summer we had thrown away
Was spent beside the fire
She’d hum a tune and play guitar,
Of singing, she’d never tire

I did not know her very well,
But she would like to talk
The only thing that captured her
Was when with you she walked
And sang and played out loud each night
She loved these simple things
She longed for you, she cared for you
She thought you’d see her through.

Just to be frank, I could not stand
The song Norwegian Wood
But nowadays, I cannot help
But hum it like she could

I often think of what she’d be
If you were with her then
And think of silly questions like
Then where, with who and when?

But to tell you the truth
I really ******* dislike thinking of you,
And by extension,
I really ******* dislike talking to you,
So let’s just stop.

On my ship, I set sail,
To where Musashi had failed,
In search of a spot to rest my head
Upon a foreign seabed.
As I leave the city port
I cast my eyes homeward in farewell
And catch a glimpse upon a cliff
Of a canvas on an easel.
Perched upon a little chair,
I spot a girl with paint at hand,
Who takes a pause to watch the sea
Part and mend at my hull’s command.

I crease my sailor cap and raise it high,
And wave to her as I pass by.
She returns to me a gentle stare
And dips her brush in paint with care.
My wandering eye is now affixed
Upon the glow of this fading girl
Whose eyes meet mine for brief moments
To watch my fleeting goodbye unfurl.
Who does she see, from on that cliff?
What boy will she now paint?
Will she remember how I look?
Or keep my features vague and faint?

Her cliff now sinks beneath the sea
To rise again, from under me,
As this ship goes from trough to crest,
Riding waves for seas southwest.
The waves now pull me off, adrift,
To oceans foreign, to currents stiff,
Trapped within the torrent’s pull
Where a storm awaits in full.
I wonder when she turns to the sea
Does the breeze redden the skin of her cheeks?
Does she watch the rolling clouds
Blend with the white of the crashing tide
And find herself somewhat resigned
To a deepening sadness trapped inside?
How will she remember me?
What will that painting look like when it is done?
How long will she think of the boy floating away
On a sailing ship set toward the sun?

Should the leaves of a tree
feel embittered
that they must one day
expire in Autumn?
Likewise,
should I harbour
resentment
if I am to
fade into memory?

On the bus ride home
I woke up
with my face resting
against the shoulder
of a stranger.

These passing moments
strike me as
most beautiful,
for even I can tell
that the present
will blossom
into an evocative,
eternal bitterness.

I cherish this
fruitless heartache
with renewed ardor,
as it is the only proof
I had ever loved.

Each passing day
is a step down
an ever diverging
trail.

Is it useless
to wonder
if these winding paths
ever cross?

How many
will see me again?
How many
promises will be
kept?

I rehearse conversations
that I will never have
and yet
find myself
perpetually
unable to say
what I had truly meant.

A shadow cast across the room
Adopts a lonely size
Familiar, singular;
Belonging to a bride’s.

The turning of a curtain’s cord,
As the breeze blows by,
Rattles in an empty room
Which was occupied.

What good are words that can’t be heard
Or read by whom they’re for?
An open fist that grasps for wind
And memories from before.

She’s waiting in a wedding dress
Perhaps her groom is late?
But that is fine, she has the time;
Forever thirty-eight.