you had a lump in your throat every time you spoke,
it should’ve disappeared but your voice became a croak

you cleared your throat a lot,
for every word that got caught

you stopped talking about your passions;
i think your heart had run out of its rations

you helped others out many times before,
but suddenly your reassurance was no more

your silences grew longer;
i should’ve known you were a goner

you left all these warnings,
yet here i was, in mourning.

I am a cold, bleak and weary melody;
Forced out of guitar strings, alone,
a solitary piece made by a starving man.
My low notes bring down the sturdiest ship,
dragging its corpse to lay down on the sea-floor.

I am a low pitch plea of woeful "help me";
a drowning man swallowing water as his
mouth seeks the air.
My voice is wispy smoke of years of no use,
contaminating the very lungs from which it originates
from.
And sleep, she is a blissful siren.
Bringing me to underwater caverns-
chanting and humming melodies as the pressure
takes me down under and my eyes close in surrender.

I am more dead than my corpse will ever be;
just an empty sea-shell-
no pearl, no life.

I need the money
but I am not a slave to a master.
In this capitalist world were thriving
needs the illusion of paper worth,
were the jungle has segregated itself
between social life or work,
living or spending
where we follow the bell and expect
a lunch break,
where paying for a life I had no say in
is the law
and we are seen as robots to a mechanism.

A working class in which I am but a replaceable
machine gone awry over years of misuse
and
my life is compiled over minimum wage for
paychecks
where times is anything but gold.
A society in which working for retirement is
somehow starting early,
where youth is wasted and rusted by gears of a watch.

Call me a starving artist because-
the art of my life is but the aesthetics of my mind,
because I won't invest my time for the ownership of your profit,
because living is not experiencing the wonders of
a world in where success is equivalent to currency.

Call me human because I am,
free and spending my life but not to mere pennies of your system.

This morning I sat contemplating the wrinkled sheets of
my night of restless slumber-
I thought of the possibility behind contacting you and being
denied or sitting here and believing in the multi-verse theory.

When I was younger I took comfort in the thought of different
worlds which equate to multiple plausible outcomes.
I thought that if it rained here,
out there, another me would enjoy a sunshine bliss.
And so, by that logic, there is a universe in which you answer
positively, negatively,
one which we never met
and another which we are together from the beginning.
If so, does that mean this universe is the one of regret?

I am staring at my undone bed fully aware it won't make itself,
but I can't help and ponder that in another universe things once
broken put themselves together.
However, of action and inaction,
of to be and not to be;
this world demands and answer.
Thus this morning I make my bed quite early and wait for a reaction.

Summer once more,
you dote on him and make excuses on his favour.
Saying “not guilty” when we, the judges, know
how criminally wrong.

Need some time, he argues,
as I, your friend, sigh against the obvious.
But you can't see because he curses you the culprit
while playing victim.

We both know, your eyes tell me,
through the manipulation and the love that's more like “***”
that blinds you, that binds you
he twists you once more around his finger until he gets bored
and moves onto another.

Can't you see?
The boundaries between *** and making love?

Stop begging for scraps of attention, can't you see?
Love is not constant incrimination.

I was going to leave today but Love came
and lightly tapped my door.
As soon as I opened, oblivious to its intent,
it poured and whisked your name in to my place.
It sat contented at the end of my sofa while
I tried to reason with my hot cocoa tightly
clenched within my hands.
It asked for some and I gave my cup away
relenting to the oncoming shadow of the ending
of this day.

I was going to leave today and tightly shut the door
but,
what's the worst that could happen? Pondered Love.
Nothing to lose and nothing to fear-
Hoping for a yes with the possibility of getting “No.”
Live out in regret or knowing crystal clear.