To talk of soul,
Yet be cut off,
By woes of love,
Upon the rocks,
Dashed and diced,
In passion’s prime,
Is nothing more,
Than a mark of time.

The weary one,
Who counts his blessings,
By races run,
With tired methods,
Prays for rest,
Upon the wings,
Of the angel,
In fading ink.

Yet he knows now,
He is alone,
And for his troubles,
He shall atone,
As he loved her,
As soulmates do,
But wished an end,
Both well and true.

That was when,
His soul would close,
To any lovely,
Soft repose,
And he would fall,
To love itself,
And call “I’m sorry,”
As he fell.

I hold loyalty only to the colors of rose and chrome.
Searching for the exact same model of new and old,
Name of no consequence,
I have no use for this,
I wish I’d never met you in all the hopeful bliss.

I am the guest of honor at my own feast of betrayal,
Held in your name as a sacrifice to the flames of love,
So tell me now how I am a saint sweet raven,
Sweet angel,
And wring out my soul for your gain,
And I’ll happily commit character assassination in your name.

I am afraid to say I love you,
Even though I do,
From little things,
To diamond rings,
I’ll do or buy anything,
To prove that it is true.

But the reason that I’m scared,
Is a tricky little snare,
You love me,
Eternally, for now,
Until I mess up somehow,
And cause you quite a scare.

Then I could be better,
And in will come the weather,
From rain and doubt,
To lover’s drought,
Here come the bouts,
The sudden want to sever.

Pray for sincerity,
Yet beg me to stop,
It’s everything you say you need,
Not worth a thought.

But pardon me for caring,
I guess I’ll step away,
Wish you luck in love’s paring,
“But wait,” you said, “Stay.”

But I’ve got no gift for patience,
See not anymore,
Because I’ve played the game of waiting,
Too much before.

And all the sudden that’s my fault,
Why don’t I love you?
That’s just an insult,
I did and you knew.

So what happened to then?
All the time you had,
You called me a friend,
And I accepted that.

But now you’re unhappy,
Because I treat you like one,
You didn’t care about me,
When I made you the sun.

So how are you?
Dear friend of mine,
Let’s see this through,
And silently say goodbye.

Because the chance has come and gone,
I hate to say it,
But romance can only wait so long,
So goodb-.

A fool to care,
And a fool to dream,
A fool to hope,
Upon a spark, a gleam.

An ember born,
Of passion’s flame,
To mock my heart,
With a single name.

Radiant, the angel,
Both bright and smiling,
A gift, a treasure,
Worth the while.

Shall never see,
This lonely poem,
As I’ve given up,
And hope’s gone home.

Such is the curse,
Of “I love you” too late,
To sit on the side-lines,
To wither, to wait.

Such is the lot,
Of love never said,
To be unrequited,
To hope in love’s stead.

But what do I know,
Of love and it’s cares,
A daydreaming heart,
Who dabbles, not dares.

To take but one chance,
And give it a shot,
The gift of romance,
Which I never got.

Hello dear thoughts,
I say that a lot,
Are you here for a haunt,
Or a happy little jaunt down memory lane?

I’d like to keep warm here,
If it’s all the same to you,
I’d like to live sincerely,
And learn something new.

But it seems more often than not,
My dear friends, my thoughts,
That you’ve forgotten how to be happy,
And so I’m asking, stop me if I misunderstand you.

Because to me you seem to dwell,
On all the unfair, and all the unwell,
But we had lots of good times too,
Just swell don’t you remember?

Well I guess it’s too much to ask,
Like when I pray for the winter,
In December to last,
So I ask you now, unmask your thoughts.

And remember all the good times,
We up and forgot,
Like how everybody loves you, really, a lot.
Now if you can tell me,

Can we forget our memories,
Of tragedies, a masterpiece of sad-to-see thoughts,
A lot of you forgot the best part of me,
The happy part, a work of art with a sunrise in the margins.

I live for expression,
A common cause of depression,
Not saying I have it,
That would be tragic.

But I’ve looked at my father,
And bothered to ask it,
I said, “Do you think we’re depressed?”
He said, “No, we just feel for the casket.”

From that day on,
I’ve stumbled along,
Living life like a dream,
Where yesterday’s clear and tomorrow is gone.

He said to me “Son,
We are the givers,
And we have to be strong,
We feel for the pain and ease it along.”

“We open ourselves to the hurt and the worst,
Coating our shells with words in a verse,
Taking time then to hear, understand?
Being sincere is our role in the plan.”

But I look at him then,
And I think, and I see,
That out from his pen,
He writes so tragically.

And I wonder now often enough,
If the answer he gave was real or a bluff,
If giving’s our role then let it be said,
We carry the toll of depression expressed.