I found your earrings on my window sill
I’m not sure how long they’ve been there or
If you know they’re missing
I’m too scared to move them
So I just pretend not to see

She found your earrings on my window sill
I didn’t know what to say
It’s been months and I can’t even utter your name
Still you lie on the window sill

Winter came and found your earrings by the window
Cold and harsh
That’s what I loved about you
I wonder what you loved about me
Did you love these earrings?
Do you think of them
Do you think of me?

I think I'll fall asleep in an hour
I think I'll be dead in a week
I'm sick of bitter arrogance-
it isn't something unique.
In fact it's kind of grotesque
the way I choose to progress
it's like i'm slowly
cutting from my
feet
and stopping
at my chest.
Do you get it yet?
Do you find it hard to understand?
Am I not what you were looking for
or do I need to be better than I am?
I'm only asking.
I think that's fair.
But then again I'm getting acquainted with
despair.
I tell myself it isn't real.
I try to believe that you care.
But all that goes out the window when
I see you are not there.
It's unusual;
the way I trip
over myself.
Therapists and teachers
always said I needed help.
But I didn't believe them.
Ignorant was how I felt.
Trapped, corner,
isolated-
I was ****** with what was dealt.
Just know that I didn't keep it.
I just walked right on out.
And for every moment
I've been defeated-
at least I wasn't

someone else.

I have come a long way.
Those endless nights spent clouding the mind
to a comfortable blindness
where I did not have to witness
the war at my own front door.

I have come a long way.
Locked in fear I could not communicate
with my foreign tongue;
learned that good company
was the mere salute of open arms.

Learned to swallow breath
as I once did pills, *****, and cigarettes
to find that patient calm.
Chemicals promise anaesthesia;
only pain is left when supplies are gone.

I have come a long way
from the departure lounge,
staring at heaving grey skies
and contriving a paradise
no one could hope to find.

Walked suicidal through
tourist-lit streets of central Bangkok.
Half-drunk I wondered why
I continued to breathe;
why my heart refused to stop.

I have come a long way
from believing happiness
is a steady state you can attain
through time-lapse images of victories
and failures you forgot.

Fell in love with an older woman
who would sleep beside me
when she could not see her son.
Through nights of *** and amphetamine
she would sway through each melody

even when the meaning was lost.
Taught me how to speak Thai in the moonlight,
left food on the handles of my motorbike
when I was too hungover
to face the day.

I have come a long way.
Travelled 6000 miles to learn
that home  means anything
from a constant pleasure
to some happy accident.

That love is not pillow-talk;
it’s the rain on the windshield
that gives shelter from the storm.
That truth is not what you hope to find.
but the words that you meant;

fractions of yourself
you could never leave behind.
I have come a long way.
I have made love in enough hotel rooms
to tell you the ashes of yesterday

can be both the aftermath of a flame
you cannot replace
and the fertile ground
to change your name
and start over again.

I have come a long way.
I am still my worst enemy.
Every day is still a fight;
each moment filled with darkness
when I cannot see the light.

I have come a long way.
Stood brave in the entryway
of every opened door.
Made a toast for all the people I could be;
all of the people I have been before.

I saw her shadow in eyes of golden flame;
Nothing to lose, something to gain.

She exhaled whispered promises, tendrils of sin.
Her cold lips smiled; insidious is her grin

She spun and spun with airy grace
But nothing fled the ivory mask, her face.

The snow fell softly under the pale moon;
I saw her within my mind far too soon.

I know what it is like to be a survivor. I know what means to be redeemed. I have fallen down with a hard crash, but I can walk, today.   I've experienced hate, but also love. Indifference has gained plenty of territory in this age, and fatigue is no stranger. I've grown weary of the daily grind and sometimes feel like a pretender. Nevertheless, I have found much to be passionate about, and I'm glad to be a part of the Beating Heart Association-also known as "alive".

We are warriors in a battlefield, because there is a war going on out there. I've wanted to shake hands and call a truce, for I've needed the peace and quiet. I needed to take hold of my thinking, for I think my punches were landing back onto me. I'm often guilty of self-deprecation, so don't look for lemonade from me. I'd just as well hand out lemons.

Sure, I love happy endings, for it is a distraction from many harsh realities.  This planet surely contains conundrums.  There are many amazing things in the world as well as there are many things that are far too perplexing. I have had plenty of doubts in God, others and myself, but still manage to maintain a flicker of faith. How it gets rekindled is what makes it divine. Everything else in this world will end up old, useless and discarded, but such intangibles have staying power.

Visions of hope make this world possible.  An existence without flux is an existence most stagnant. To conclude, throwing in the towel just cannot be an option. So take note: You can still see me walking down that Yellow Brick Road, experiencing the journey that is full of bumps, twists, turns and surprises.

I used to eye her more than books.

She had good looks
and for me
in the library
she killed the dullness of patience
the stifled air of silence
with her lips' hidden smile
that was quite a diversion
from pouring over yellowed pages
all the while.

In the garden I sought my chance
but she resisted any advance
telling me it's not her
I needed to be in my mind
but a job I must find
for couldn't be raised a family
merely loving in the library.

I think she gave me love
when I needed a job
but by the time I earned the bread
she was already married.

Once I thought of her as Miss Giving
but now as I look back
I have serious misgiving.

a calendar
lies in the corner of a table,
forgotten,
two weeks into the New Year,
its simple pencil sketch at the top
showing at an angle.
late at night
a noise can be heard from that corner,
the sound of protesting sobs,
and a little voice
can be picked out here and there,
"all the other calendars
had pretty scenes
of mountain lakes and forest glades.
now they are all gone.
someone has taken them
to hang on their wall.
and I am still lying here.
nobody wants me.
my big, clumsy letters
are clear and dark.
a child could read them.
and my large, awkward boxes
have plenty of writing space.
I am the best calendar around
and could help someone greatly
in their struggle
to remember their place in time,
if only someone would stay long enough
to see what I am
and not what I look."