there are
at least two sides
to every story:
and only one to the truth

Go ahead, hurt me and make my soul cry
look at me, touch me and stab my heart with your words.
I know you do not love me, I know you do not need me,
but, please, come here and take me out of this hell.
Lie to me, just do it one more time, do not be afraid,
lie to me while my cup of coffee gets cold and my world gets colder,
While the sky turns dark and my heart gets darker.
I know you do not love me, I know you do not need me.
I feel alone, sad, anxious, but I really know it is not enough
it will never be enough, never enough as the love I gave you.
So now, my pen is crying and this piece of paper is wet.

One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...

In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.


© M.L.Emmett

I wish someone had
told me to stay away
from poetry
I wish I had
known it's an addiction
that won't let me rest
I wish someone had
showed me another way
to get burdens off my chest
besides dumping the shards
sealed in bags of vocabulary,
I wish I hadn't fallen
too deep in love
to find solace in words
for this sums up how much
my addiction rewards