she was probably the saddest girl

I had ever seen,

young, beautiful,

petite but not small,
dark but not reserved, not
afraid.

it was so strange;

what was she doing
there? at an empty bar,

in an empty city,

on a tuesday night,

alone, chirpy.

she said she was 32

when she looked 25,

time had treated her well,

‘how?!’ we asked,

‘drinking and smoking a lot of ****’, she answered,

she kept on

such a brave face.

even as the drunks

and kids

and madmen bombarded her,

nothing could take away her buzz.

I just kept wondering,
how she got there,

how any of us got here.

she was truly beautiful,
alone
and beautiful,
but so sad.

we're both empty,
we're both in search of
happiness, love,
companionship, hope,

both in search
of each other,
but yet,
she would never allow it,

she's above it,
she's against it,
she elevates herself to a level far beyond mine.

******* she's never considered it,
thought about it, fantasised about it,
loved it, felt it,
it's all too real to deny,

but she keeps running
away,
hidden in plain sight,
teasing me,
that heartless *****.

i remain in limbo,
but with her, she could be
anywhere.


Buk reminded us;
death is inevitable- we're all heading towards it,
"that alone should
make us love
each other but it doesn't",

maybe if I sent her some poetry,
she'd realise i've been here
the whole time.

'xxxxx,
where have you been all my life?'
the sarcastic exaggeration sends a chill down my spine.


where have i been?
right here baby.
waiting;

not for the postman who's late on a tuesday,
or for the world to find peace,

not for the politicians to stop lying,
or the rain to stop falling,

not for a little appreciation,
or even the pain to go away,

but right here,
right here baby,
i've been waiting, all this time,
for you,
5 miles away from your hotel,
with my arms
open,
my heart
open,
just praying for a phone call, a text message,
a ******* hello if anything,

but no,
i wait in vain for someone
who couldn't even give a ****,
about me or anything of the sort,

and then you come to me,
when its just too late,
asking
where i've been,
when i'm fairly certain,
you knew all along.

i wait for her to ask,

so i can tell her about the poems i write
that never get read,
or the feelings i have
that never get shared.

so i can show her the drawings
that exist, because of her,
or the photos and books i've set aside all these years,
that made me think of her.

so i can let her know about the light
i let burn, throughout each night,
just incase the dreams where she and i are together,
become too real.

so i can tell her how i wait all day,
sometimes until 2, 3, or 4 in the morning,
vigilante and prepared,
just for a call, a message, a kiss.

so i can have an excuse to drive to the airport,
leave my car in LONG TERM PARKING,
buy a one-way ticket,
tip the air hostess for a glass of water,
pay a taxi to step on it,
and show up at her doorstop,
with nothing but devotion, passion,
and a week's worth of clothes.

but at least
so i can tell her
that i love her,
without it sounding weird.

we all love to be
a little depressed at times

it makes all the **** that life throws
at us, a tad more bearable,
and those rare perfect moments,
a whole lot nicer,

we cry and moan and surrender
all faith and hope and love
in every one
and everything,
just so the ***** and drugs and anger is justified,

a perfect life with only ups
and no downs,
where everything goes as planned
and happiness is served to us on silver platter of deceit,
sounds awfully boring,

i want my beer
my ****
my tears
my regrets,
my poems,
my heartache,
they make me happy when nothing should,

i wouldn't have it any other way

it’s been a few weeks now,
since i last 
played poker

and i’m starting
to miss it,

as childish

as that sounds,

i miss it being my only thought when i woke up, my only thought

when i went to sleep,

how it always use to be
the main topic

of a conversation, of an argument,

i miss how it made me feel, the winning days,

the losing days,

they’ve all become a blur now, and its not the
happiness or depression that i miss,

but the feelings,

they seem so rare now,

maybe i’m just

a 
*******
degenerate, or maybe
i’m just human

the truth is
i fall
in love
with almost every
single girl
i meet,

the tall ones, the loud ones, the petite ones,
the heartless ones and the caring ones,
i'm vulnerable to
them all,
to the extent
that i even
surprise myself,
at times.

i can't help it,
and this is no
exaggeration.


my love for these women
is not immortal,
i can assure you of that.
it often transforms into
extreme hate and disgust,
i begin to loathe them
and soon
myself,

i'm a disease,
really.


whilst my love is genuine,
so is the pain
i will inevitably
suffer,
because of it.

at first, i become slowly obsessed,
my affection is exponential,
i say all the right things
and i'm often not
full of ****,
i can close my eyes and picture
the next
6 years
with this girl,
my life is injected with
unsurpassed happiness,
and i plan never
to let them go,
its bliss.

but then,
something goes wrong.
always.
its normally minuscule-
a slight rejection,
a misinterpreted comment.
my expectations are set
too high,
i know it.

the cigarettes start,
the depression kicks in,
give me a beer
a joint,
my life seems so much
worse
than it is,
i know it.

i switch gears
and become
my worst
enemy,
i'll begin to ignore
her, give her the
cold shoulder,
my hate unjustly
grows,
i'm a monster.

her feelings are no longer
priority,
its all about me
and my sadness.

sometimes
its justified.
most of the time
its pathetic,
i know it.

but you see,
i'm an infectious parasite.
for some reason,
girls often respond
desirably
to my premature love,
but for another reason,
its the worst thing
that ever happened to them,
and me.