Waited by the porch....
Longing for someone to ask for sweet words....
I can only offer poems..
No one seemed to want a poem...
People were only asking for sweets..
Everyone was in a hurry..
No one talked to me...
I guess the poet costume did not work...
But then again..
Who can describe a poet...
I will wait for another year then...
I still believe poems are a treat..
To the ears who want to listen to the soft whispers of a poem..
Or the souls that rejoice at these words...
As I see it, the world is a poem...
At least my world...

A soft, bruised apple your pretty absence—
I loathe— this bickering, bitter adolescence;
I miss myself unripened, myself sour
Where clung to anchor, I asked for more
Oh, more, and gave it cunning and cold: joys
That lovely ruin bore. Then your dragon eyes
And how I built built you out of lone
Now from me, to me my grief well known
Take you and on and on you go
Oh, cursed be your laughter: yellow and so
Sweet as stout it plunged — so quick a shine—
Into the sulking waters of mine. Oh, swear, was mine
The tremble, decay; yours the glittery dust.
Now parched, still patient pleads this lust

Return, O seamless, sodden salve, you must
You must—

the ripe winds
perch upon the threads of
western disturbance












days dissolve in sadness
find me when this ends

tell me about your
experiences

lets go for a walk
before it's too late

i'm awake just
for you

and i never sleep when
you are not looking

i stay still until the
alarm rings

and it is your time
to leave

early morning when
the songbird sings

there you are
never here

you've loved me in
the spring

and i've been in love
with you ever since

dying of sadness on
a tuesday








trading through the
vastness of liquid turmoil

flowing and cutting
across the narrowest
of vengeance

that has laid upon
this land flourishing
under a disguise:
of mere nothingness and
certain similarity;

for who knows
what converses with the
frigid north

and talks to the
passes of the mighty
peaks of middle Asia

walking past the grandeur
of the Himalayas, and it's
many ancient towns

where no other
has been of any importance
whatsoever

there in the sweet solace
of solitude and crisp sunrises

i find myself dreaming
of the tranquil winds, and
ancient passageways:

far from Nazareth and
the cradle of men

where the old brick
roads now sleep in dusk

and there's nothing
left to conquer

built upon the spectacular
-- on this olden earth

i find myself yearning
for little things.

The saddest thing in this world,
   is constantly being used by him,
       and continuing to play the game, you are going to l̶o̶s̶e̶.

We are born into this world to love,
Born to find it, lose it again and again,
in a reoccurring tune, like the phoenix each love must start anew.
So why am I b̶r̶o̶k̶e̶n̶? As I continue to ponder and long for you?

You give yourself to him,
        he takes and he takes,
             until your reflection is a stranger,
                                      a cheap, overly used, stranger.
  -He will n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ love you.

If I could meet someone who is just like me, I would be able to live the life of my dreams once more.