A gentle kiss for one longed missed. A white dove from above for dearest beloved. My lady has it been a thousand moons; by God's will, I'll see you soon.

Eyes of that of blue moon, what greater sight than bride to groom? In sickness and in health so shall this be. In poorness and in wealth stay by me.

From the moment this knot is tied, until the day this man has died; I'll be there to wipe your tears; I'll be there to fight your fears; I'll be there to keep you safe; I'll be there to hold you near.

Whether it be day light or eternal night, you should forever be the apple of my sight.

There's a lone one, in alone.
A
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        N
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Another glass of wine, to silence the silence speaking within my mind.

Another laugh... Another whine, these ten thousand thoughts, and their sweet sorrows; I claim as mine.

Another glass of wine, for these wounds shall be slow to close with time. Numb me, by the virtue of the Vine; liberate my heart of the bitterness of Lime; baptise me, as yet another glass of wine; I claim as mine.

I met with him, again beneath that Willow tree, whose roots ensnared all the land that could be seen.

Though the most striking of imagery, to me, was the fact that December's snow-white sovereignty, was usurped by a vibrant, vital green; the legacy left behind, by the Willow's fallen leaves.

He sat around the table, his back against the lake; his face was as always, nonchalant and noble, as if though unmoved by our date.

I rushed towards him, worried that I was late; fully prepared to apologise and explain, as I would have, could he only wait.

But he, he confirmed my worries with a smile and said. "You would have been ten minutes late, hadn't ten seconds remained. Luckily I told you to meet, ten minutes ahead, so there's still an hour for our date... Friend."

"Friend?" I returned an innocent smile to him, saying. "So, is that the lie that we're telling... to ourselves and them?"

He sighed for bit, absent-mindedly giving the chess pieces a toss and flip.
"Father said... if one tells a lie long enough; it becomes the truth. So I have lied to myself for three months; that a friend is all that I am to you; and you to I."

Clicking my tongue I replied. "Mon amour, that's a difficult lie; and one that I tell myself as well... my own little sample of hell."

"A friend... your friend I will be; and tell myself this lie for an eternity. So long as I can see your smile, beneath this willow tree." I said within my heart, silently.

Betrayal... is that piece of metal, placed beneath the tongue. And though you rinse and wash, its taste remains; it is too strong.

Betrayal... is that castle on high; no matter how far one goes, it still shows in the sky.

Betrayal... is the lord who demands with each new day, of your heart, a greater tithe. Advising you to march onward and love; even though foes charge at you from the sides and above.

I will love you, until we are black and blue; bruised by these pains and pleasures, that I offer you.

It has never been this hard to breathe, but it has been breathless... suffocating, since you decided to leave.

It feels as though you took a piece of me, and left the rest behind to grieve; as the Sun of our Future dims and sets, shadowed memories of our Past are cast; offering me no relief... no release.

Can you hear my silent screams? You have made nightmares of our pleasant dreams. The tears I shed are often unseen, just like the wounds from which I bleed.

My silent screams, they fill the air, they are at their loudest when no one is near. They plead for a need yet unmet; for a want though beyond my gain. Yet even they weep and wail, at the mere mention your name.

Within these walls reflect, rising remorse and roused regret; symphonies of sorrow seasoned and spiced by despair: Broken promises have brought and forsaken us here.

Mon amour, in this room I am haunted by my cologne, that you stole and made your own; it lingers, like these feelings of you alone.

My hands ruffle the sheets; nails and fingers birth wrinkles where they meet. Though the memories of your locks between my fingers... to these I retreat; to these feelings, I fall asleep.

Pray return to my embrace, and end this eternal vigil with grace. Pray return to my arms, sound and safe; for each breath breathed without you here, is a waste.

Sweet... so sweet at first; as if intending to overbear, and then in a moment's breath, the intensity having mellowed fades.

Next one's tongue does greet, a nuttiness that begs it to retreat; reviving dead memories of when you two first did meet.

Having now fallen from heights, be they ***** or steep; the taste of your tongue becomes bittersweet. Ending this final kiss, silently pledging to lose neither hope nor sleep; heartbreak leaves the taste of caramel upon your teeth.

You don't even love me, o you don't even care. When we are together, I can't tell if you're even there; I reach out for your hand, but you pull away.

You don't even love me, o you don't even care. My eyes begin to water then I hear you say. "Ty, be a man and put away those tears. Or are you still a boy, even after all of these years?"

No amount of wisdom could have made me prepared... to wake up in the morning and realise that you weren't here. You said that we'll be together forever, so did forever end yesterday? Does the end of forever, begin an eternity of pain?

You don't even love me, o you don't even care. Yet I'm still wishing that you were here; you're the cause and cure of my heartache.

I gazed through my window, to the field of Summer's green below, releasing a sigh, more akin to a moan; for having been born to this tropical paradise, I have never seen fields of snow and ice.

The Capital bustles, with crowds I'm sure, those legions advancing towards all stores; thoughtless exhausting the coin that they had for all year stored.

So this Christmas now, a feast and a fair; a chance for children to have a hundred toys, ninety-nine of which will never be played with again.

I suppose that's fine, go on then and dine, dye you glasses red with the decadence of wine. Feast! Feast till you are merry and fat; eat all on your plate, and I won't begrudge you that.

All I want for this Christmas are my kin, my friends. To have them near, anything I would gladly trade.

There is no need for noble graces, with you, I have none. Just one entreat, request and command: "Come."

'You' see me for what I truly am, behind this regalia of dignity and honour; hides a ****** man. Now come, and heed my command.

I pressed the knife's end against my veins, to see if it might sting the same; as when you call my name.

The blood hasn't spilled yet, yet I'm already drowning in the pain.

Words last forever once said; the past is beyond our reclaim.

Gaze not at your Christmas tree, nor the many wrapped gifts laid there beneath. For what ever they may be, the greatest gift of Christmas, was long ago bequeathed.

On that cold night in Bethlehem, was born him without sin, Emmanuel, the Promised One, did the people call him. O do you hear the angels herald and sing: "Glory to the King of Kings."

O, what priceless gifts have ye. Of which, how many may set your spirit free? Silver, Gold, precious gems and jewellery, though all are good within none salvation be.

So on this one night promise me, that you'll forget your hams and turkeys, sweet wines, rums and brandies. For Christmas should be more than a feast, festival, or fair, it should be a time of reflection of yesteryear; accepting one's losses, and appreciating one's gains. And most of all remembering Christ for whom, the day is named.

And I'll promise you, after all this pain, a Christmas that you will believe: Could never be the same!

Dear Diary, perhaps you might tell me: "What Do You See?"

Cause the mirrors offer a reflection, that just cannot be: An eighteen year old boy, who's both happy and healthy.

Dear Diary, Dear... Who? Perhaps you might credit the broken creature that penned you. The one that inflicted these tears and tears; these crude reflections... recreations of its own scars and pains.

Dear Diary, Dear... Who? This question is one, that you wonder too. Perhaps ironic, as the answer is known only by you; just call me, Dear Who.

Your every pore, my tongue wishes to explore... to know.

Whilst my hands long to touch the nucleus of your soul.

Let my ears hear the harmonies of your unbroken moans.

I shall inhale the sap and nectar of Love's tree, greedily, as your falling flowers' pollen bury me; within a living tomb of ecstasy.

We will see, all of the animals and beasts, we lovers can be; when "Human" nature runs free.

I am haunted by a soulful song; lacking lyrics, lo lost, lest lament found.

I am taunted by a merciless melody, mixed - measured threefold - with melancholy and memories legend-long.

Salvation and sweet, shall be Silence's Sound.

I'm laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. You're staying in my head, and I can't shake these feelings.

My every word and deed, confesses that you are my need; love has sown her seed, and from it roots my heart bleeds.

I'm laying in my bed, while you're laying in my head, and so this tragedy begins. Might someone please rid Shakespeare of his pen, and let this story come to its end?

The tempest winds are blowing strong, I am slowing falling down; I feel that I am suffocating underneath water, but I can't seem to drown.

My heart can't get any sleep, causes it speeds up its beat, when I tell you that I love you... but you don't repeat.

I am staring at the ceiling, imagining that you are staring back, and for now... I am content with that.

I watched them from afar, as they laughed and played. Two pieces of innocence, that were soon to fade.

Cause each day they're getting older, now their smiles don't seem the same. They write their feelings in a folder, cuddling they pillows tightly, as they whisper the other's name.

The boy says: "I wish that I could hold you, just like when we used to play. I feel that I love you, but fear that you might not feel the same. So I'll hug my pillow tight, and these tears... will get me through the night. Tomorrow, I will get to see you smile, and I'll be alright."

The girl peeps through her bedroom window, though she can't see the boy. 'Maybe he's asleep, it was a long day after all.' Now she hugs a handmade doll, and whispers words she hopes it can't repeat:

"He looks so cute, when he takes a nap; though I can't remember, the last day his head rested in my lap. Doesn't he love me? Am I really just a friend? These feelings that I have, how can I ever tell him them? I miss the way he held me, all back then; like I was more than a friend. All of these kisses that I give you, are really meant for him."

She sighs and looks up at sky. "Why must boys become men? And why do I want that man, to be more than just my friend?... To be my lover in the end."

History is the religion of the Survivors; the blasphemy of the Defeated; the faith of the Victors.

History is the suspicions of the Non-Believers.

How fleeting is my lady's beauty? How fleeting is the pride of younger days? When we had laugh and cried with candied serenity all the same. How fleeting are those youthful days, now my lady and I are old and grey.

I am tired... so very exhausted of it all; inside of this frail body, heart and mind wage a war. I am human, and only human after all.

I am the boy who sits at the back of the class; I am the myth and legend, that you have never heard laugh.

I am the eloquent, who so seldom speaks "Good day." and "Goodbye."
I am the b r o k e n, though you will never see me; p a r t i a l or cry.

I am the Lie.

I am the Lie, well housed in the illusion of an ever-present smile.

I am the wary traveller, exhausted yet still encouraging others to walk the extra mile.

I am the dying and ill, who screams to others. "Keep surviving and living, hold fast to your will; life once truly lived, has both bad and good."

I am a human... for better or worse. I am a duality to all others; either a blessing or a curse.

I am a song sang, though others remember only a verse... I am a play, that has been exhaustively rehearsed.

I don't burn bridges, I preserve those wonders of old. I let the waters rise, whilst I remain underneath its ridges and contours.

I don't burn bridges, not because that I am mature.

I don't burn bridges, because I am alone; and a bridge is a well travelled road.

I don't dream, of Mahogany trees at 10:00 pm; beneath whose vast canopies of nighted green, I lay with them.

I don't dream, of sweet songs sang pursuant to savoured seconds stilled; as I acquainted your ears and neck, respectively... collectively to a poet's tongue and fangs. As we forged new fragments of much missed memories, upon our little hill.

I don't dream, of tight embrace, nor of your critus and aggrieved face; they are the choicest fruits of my regretful request: That you return home safe and nothing less.

I don't dream, of them; my every conscious thought and deed are but my surplus offering. O! How I long to give my two copper pieces to them. Perhaps four hours of supplication, might make me more than a friend.

I miss you, your perfume haunts me in this empty room; though perhaps it's a cruel reminder, that I will see you soon.

Ah, were I to have just one wish, I fear that I might waste it on a kiss; and though lacking wealth, enjoy eternal bliss.

I miss you, truly it is so. So hurry up my love; and come home.

Seconds sire seasons, life by stroll or sprint fades.

In search of higher reasons, none are ignorant of the null totality of yesteryear.

Time is neither favour nor fear; for Oak roots expand their domain, just as vast canopies usurp heaven’s terrain; a babe’s bones are made strong, even more so as toddlers play, yet still shatter, to dust decay, by the passage of Time’s decades.

Live this life, for better or worse; surmount the strife, and derive blessing from curse.

The sun set, with scarlet potential, unrealised and unmet.

As I awaited your ephemeral silhouette; the promise to be kept.

What is life? To breathe, to eat, to rest; To hope, to wish, to greet Death? Is it seconds, minutes, hours or days, or perhaps greater times; months and years?

For time is as a breeze of wind, gentle yet moving, unseen yet foreseeing; then men's lives are as leaves, so easily blown away, as life's Author quickly turns a new page.

Will your story be told, rewritten in bold, or forgotten, forever unknown?

Parents bark, bite, and blame.

I raise my earphones' volume so high, that I don't hear my pain.

Love is gentle.
Love is true.
Love is temptation.
Can you refuse?

Love is at first a whisper... pressed against your ears, by the wind. Then it becomes a flicker, that burns from within; emotions expressed... exposed and eternalised; though you would wish them only to end.

So, in a futile attempt to repent, you remind yourself of a reality well known; though you would wish it, not your own: "We are friends, just friends... and nothing more."

So you brace yourself, content to never show, those emotions that you have buried in an unmarked grave; so that they will never know.

Lo, you embrace your hell, content to type the words that you cannot tell; love is the blurred line, between heaven and hell.

Love is the lullaby, that you sing to yourself; an elixir of poison mercury, that you drink for your health.

If love had ever had an antidote, then it would be all the words that we never spoke; buried by the linguistic silence of our throats.

Few are the poems that I have wrote, yet the pens might as well be Chinese, that I have broke. Our love was once an eagle's wings, custom made to sing hymns whilst we sinned; like mere children, so impassioned by any and everything - Now love is the yoke, both burdensome and binding.

Love is as a peom, written without its end.

As its weary poet inks his barren pen.

An art all men wish to read, though very few can see; yes love is above all things, this world's greatest mystery.

This is the melancholy of Innocence, so do sit and have a glass. Drink slowly, and savour the taste friends; for innocence shortly lasts. She is as a flower, most beautiful at bloom, but, we must not forget now; that flowers must wither too.

So what is the sadness... the melancholy of Innocence, if all things must pass away? Perhaps it is the longing then, that one's innocence did remain. Yes, the melancholy of Innocence; is that deepest longing, day after day. The longing for something, you know well that you can't regain.

Heartbreak decided, that he had to bring his childhood friend. And I know that he means well, but he could be quite annoying.

Cause who needs memories, when you're trying to forget; memories of how she wiped away your tears, immediately after you had wept.

My heart professes perpetuity, and was so faithful to, yet my mortality minds no frame nor memory of you.

This epidermis sheds and skins from disuse; need my heart evidence, might my chill-cracked palms be your proof?

The contours of your constitution, all known by their names, are perhaps now amended by the passage of passing age and days.

The sirens of your voice's sound, awaken me from my dreams; the symphonies of my soul's supplications, now so strange and foreign seem.

My heart professed perpetuity, and is so faithful to, so should this skeleton and its dependents devoice - mon Amour; my heart remains with you.

O how sweet the taste of cavalry, where Christ the Lamp was slain for me. His hands were nailed, His brow was bruised, His feet were bind, His blood was spew. Oh how great is my due, O Lord to You, that Your precious blood was spew, my all, my all I render to you.

My heart is fragile and frail, and few are the words that she so sparingly; so seldom says.

"I love you."

My heart, she says.

From where should I start to speak, this story's mountain path or its peak? What does it matter, where it be? I pray that these words may be what I wish that I could be: Free.

O Mother dear, O Mother fair, you must know this is not my way; and yet to differ you would say. Your words still ring in my ears: "What are my intentions?" They are clear, my heart cries out but no one ever listens to hear; so I offer up my silent prayer. As a soldier, I will march on; with bleeding scars beneath my spotless battle gear.

And O Father dear, you have no pride, yes, but what of shame? At the thought I could be gay, you suddenly have a son, whom you wish to call and care. I pay no heed with whom you lay, so may this kindness not be repaid? For kindness and compassion you cast blame, those two- those two are humans first, so call them by their names. I will choose my friends, whom I dare, they are not yours to take away.

Now I understand, people talk and talk they may dare. But life is just so much better when you don't care, of people, or what they say. I know what I am at the end of the day.

People smile, while they ask: "Are you okay?" And I smile in kind, then pleasantly reply. "I can't complain or whine." And that is my daily lie; an illusion of happiness for the pain to hide.

I scream out but no one hears, so to You, Father God I offer my silent prayer.  Give me strength for each new day; lest the real me fades away. And please, could you stop these tears, it's kind of hard to type a prayer in the rain.

I close my eyes and hope to dream, I have slept myself wary of the darkness' company; now the monsters they come for me. Afraid, I CAN'T even scream! I am trapped in this nightmare, where none can hear me.

They emerge from beneath my bed, seemingly thoughtlessly; as they have no heads. Yet still I hear them crackling, "Please be our friend... sleep, and stay till the end."

I see them annoying the shadows, I hear them hissing sins. Yet again they entreat me, "Please be our friend."

Now, I ask screaming, "When will this end? Tell me what sins, have I committed?"

Then they replied, "Aren't you still breathing? That is your sin. You're still living, and we the dead... want us a friend. One will sleep, and stay to the end."

I spent the day with you, waiting for the Sun to set; that I might kiss you in the darkness it left behind.

O, my silent singing bird, how I worry for you this day; for without hymns or choruses, you have allowed the Sun to fade.

Lo, though I have your ear, your heart is anything... anywhere but near, but here; for you, my silent singing bird sings a song of silence; souless symphonies of sorrow your aid.

Were only your chirps of greeting and discourse of our hopeful meeting, I could hear; then I would think it a concert, and listen well to the performance that you have prepared.

I had one wish; one word. Now only in nightmarish dreams, might it be heard.

"You."

That was all; my one entreat of mortal men and God. Though in my wanting of you... I had opposed them all.

Your questioning of my loyalty and our love, were to my heart, colder than the most cruel of December rain, from above.

I had one wish; one word. Now only in nightmarish dreams, might it be heard.

"You."

That was all; my one entreat of mortal men and God. Though in my wanting of you... I had opposed them all.

Your questioning of my loyalty and our love, were to my heart, colder than the most cruel of December rain, from above.

The world is not perfect, nor is it kind; with each progressive step forward, we leave more behind.

The rich give a copper piece, while they take ten gold. Has your charity forgotten the old man and boy, who harvest your coal? What merit is there in giving, if one takes more?

It's interesting, that humans have made "humanity" a show; kindness, compassion, fun, how many do you know?

For a world that's global warming, the hottest summer days feel so... cold.

Perhaps it is a global warning, to let the others knows, that most of us have a house... but too few, a home.

This house is a prison, its cells are polished purple heart, behind which I am truly alone; I am the person who admires this "purple" heart, though I loathe my own.

I am a whisper, reaching far and wide, through this phone. To most my words are beautiful poems; to few they are more; something that their hearts can hold, and have some warmth amidst the cold.

White, longing to be stained.
Blank, lacking character, hoping one bestows you a name.
Lined, and confined 8 11, words shall make you free to fly and soar straight into heaven.
A juxtaposition, your very being has attained
Words defined and combined, Paper's Poem shall be yours;

The Unclean, mine.

The sky is a generous grey, beneath whose pending charity, sentinel palm trees stray. Whilst impetuous Atlantic gusts, act as a guide to the tourist of Saharan dust, from our heritage far away... yet unclaimed.

And so it shall remain, for domiciled within Barbados' Summer paradise; I would ask only for the rain; that it might wash these seared whip wounds of Sun's splendour... away.

The fruit trees are as my family's; their abundant branches intertwine and then once more, rewind to form a clan. Yet, their want of leaves says to all, of the prospect of Summer's well-fed famine... they had made no plans.

So, we would ask only for the rain; that it might wash away the browned chlorophyll of a cruel Summer's plague. Much like nightmares... to be preserved only within the introspective and reflective archives of Yesterday.

Upon bent knees, I humbly appeal to the Holder of Divinity - Nay! I pray, for but a half empty, half full cup of rain.

I am trapped within this reverie of revived memories; of when you were by my side.

The warmth of dawn feels as though a cruel, albeit gentle lie. My Sun...set, tis that day, when you left me with why.

Why?

Why... couldn't I make you stay? Why does everything I grasp tightly... still slip away?