What happens to love not returned?

Does it die in the same way
the fish on the river bank dies?

Does it collapse under the
weight of all this air?

Perhaps it lives on, stuck
scornfully in an unwanted life.

Screaming, a banshee’s scream,
envious of the fates it preaches.

The curse of immortality seems
to be the fate of unreturned love.

To beat on against the rising sun.

By the curve in the river bed,
half way between the unknown
forest and the place you lay your head.
I will be waiting patiently for you.

The letters have all been stamped,
the signs have been given,
pleasant words have all been spoken.

The game is now afoot, and
our faintly beating hearts
have been put forth as wagers.

To lose would be to return to normality,
but to win is to gain the world,
or at the least a companion in it.

Though I warn this may hurt,
either to win or to lose,
there is no going back from here.

So come my dear, meet me
by the curve in the river bed,
throw down your dice,
and take a leap into the dark.

Just last night I prayed for
a conclusion to these midnight
fantasies which have haunted
me ever since the day you left.

Maybe it was for the simple
fear of wanting, but more
likely it is for the fear of
once again losing.

There is a weariness here
not seen by the naked eye
that is fueled by the hope
which midnight dreams bring.

Yet when my prayers were
not heard, I instead wrote
you a poem using simple
words meant only for explanation.

Perhaps that could have been
the answer to my late night prayers,
but it was never delivered,
I was never that brave.

Perhaps in another life,
where I learn how to speak
I would tell you the secrets
which you already know.

I would tell you about
a tip of double edge blade
and how it is a metaphor
for my silent heart.

And in this other life
you would forgive me
for never telling you about
how afraid I was to cut.

And I would forgive you
for falling in love with
another heart that did
not share my fear of blood.

Maybe then we can look
at each other for who we
really are and maybe, just
maybe that will be enough.

For if I were a better man,
I would not write this poem
I would not call up these
dormant words from their sleep.

And if I were a stronger man,
I would build you a strong house
out of big logs cut with my calloused hands.
Instead, all I have is a few weak words.

If I were anything other than this,
I would paint you with a metaphor
of a red moons against blackened sky.
Yet I write no metaphors.

And if a starving man refusing
to eat the food in front of him,
he is called mad, so call me mad
for never writing you your poem.

For if I were a better man, I would
have written that poem which reads:
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And that would have been my Mona Lisa.

I can’t fix your brokenness
or heal those cracks in your
heart left behind from someone
who came before me.

I will not promise you stars,
or diamonds or forever.
These are things that
I simply cannot do.

Instead, I will write you
bad love poems on bar
napkins and sneak
them into your purse.

I will give you the first
lick of my ice cream and
the last of my fries when
yours are already gone.

And when it is two
in the morning  I
will read you children
stories in different voices.

I cannot promise you much
but I will love you the
only way I know how:
with every piece of my soul.

I want a home like that
of my childhood before
the world swallowed me home.

I want to be free like
a leaf that has fell into
a stream yet does not drown.

I want to love like a consuming
fire and I want to
be consumed in return.

I want to run away
and never look back,
yet still I want to return.

I want to feel whole
no longer filled with holes
that fill the empty with dark.

I want most of all
to no longer want,
to be at peace.

What is depression?
I hear them ask as if they
are a simple congregation
replying on replay to the pastor.

Depression is not sadness,
it is important to understand this now.
It is not a cloudy Sunday or
the earthquake that knocks you down
after your first heartbreak.

She does not just visit on the
weekend or on the bad days.
No, when she comes she makes
a home inside of you.

Together you go to every meal,
every classes, and every party
like the most beautiful couple
and she is a jealous lover.
How could she not be?

Now remember back that
depression is not sadness,
rather an endless empty.
a numbing vacuum.

And after awhile you
no longer fight her loving
embrace and start to hug back.
It is now time to make things serious,
to go to the next level.

You leave the others behind,
it is best if is only just the two of you
for how can they understand
when you stop talking for days.

They will call you distant,
wondering why you chose
to sit alone at meals
and no longer call back.

But above all as much
as you hate her you
will also lover her
because if she leaves too,
only the empty will remain.

The other day someone asked me
why I never asked that pretty girl out.

And I wish there was a simple answer
that could rest my soul,
but the reality is I don’t know how
to do this love thing anymore.

The truth is there is an empty
inside of me that some days
can swallow me whole and
how could anyone love that?

She is so beautiful and pure
everything one could possible
want, yet I am twisted and
broken in the most unholy ways.

So I never asked her out,
not for the fear of the
sting rejection may bring
but for the fear of loving.

We are nothing but lovers
of the night and her soft kisses.
The burning in our throat
is nothing but an ode to stars.
It is easy to forget
the empty when you
fill it with temporary burdens
that are borrowed from the day.
It would seem that one
can fall in love with a certain
kind of pain which reminds
that we too are human.
How could we not
when her kisses are softer
then any long forgotten
lover that once held our name.
Still day comes again
for the empty to return the burdens
and our lover to go away
waiting for night once again.

They asked me what
my heaven would look like.
At first I hesitated in
a fear of being blasphemous.

Then I said that heaven
would be a thousand
Sunday mornings with
fresh sheets and a pretty girl.

It would be that summer hit
on an endless loop
from the year we thought
would never cease to end.

Perhaps it would be
back on Lombard Street
back before my heart got heavy
and souls got dark.

Heaven will bring back
the innocents that was
lost, the same we thought
could never be returned.

Best of all heaven will be
you in a sundress;
young and smiling,
and completely free.

I have always been accused
of being a quiet man,
but within I am always
the loudest in the room.

The masses name me loner
or the shy boy in the corner,
he who prefers to stay alone.

But alone is a pleasure
I have never known.
Instead I sit with my
one and only lover.

She who awakes me
in the morning and
places me to bed at night.

When you see me sitting alone
know I am not alone
and know the quiet man
is not always what he seems.

There was a girl whose
smiled was beautiful as spring snow
and just a fleeting.

Her eyes were like
gateways to heavens
I no longer know if I believe in.

Her voice summoned
this once dead heart
back to life.

And if I was a better man
I could have spent a lifetime
painting her with my words.

Though a man like me
knows  it is better to leave
happy endings for fairy tales.

I want to feel the soft embrace of a lover
on a lazy Sunday morning
clothed only in shattered sunlight.

To inhale deeply and exhale slowly,
beneath a summer sun
after a long winter.

I want to sleep like a child
after playing make-believe
under the oak tree with the tire swing.

To pray in the chapel
asking God to forgive us
for missing this moment.

I want to laugh again
and forget about tomorrow
and even yesterday.

To teach this heart
how to love again
and accept love in return.

I want a consuming passion
like a spring wildfire
completely engulfed

To be freed
in the morning breeze
lost in the hope of absolution.

Into the dark I walk
with an armful of broken promises
and of armful of empty bottles.
Waded down only by a backpack
packed tight with regret.

It is easy to fall in love
with a certain kind of darkness
so I keep walking
pertaining stories like mine
can have a happy ending.

This earth is not forgiven
she does not forget,
perhaps it is better to leave
my heart where I left it
and keep walking into the dark.

November sits dying
as I write of a summer love
long since faded away.


As I form with my words
of a time long since passed
autumn blends into winter.


My new affection sits waiting
as I scribe words of courage
yet November sits dying.


The frost gently grasp my body
as I wonder if I am worthy of the
redemption this love could bring.


Yet what do I know of love
so I let you love another
as November sits dying.

I went high in mountains
Calling god from the peaks
Screaming to the void
Yet I heard nothing but wind.

I went to the temple
Praying on my knees
Seeking him in alter
Trying to find his name.

In the city I sought
Our lord in the face of
The beggar who knows
him better than me.

But when I found him
He dwelled not in temples
Or mountains tops
But only within me.

And so at last October dies
On the last breathe of
Crisp autumn air
That lingers in the morning.

On the exhale
November is born
Out of the frozen ground
And fallen leaves.

The months bring us
Further away from summer love,
Born half way between
Rainy days and midnight walks.

Yet the cool that comes
With the night
Has not dulled the warmth
We made under the sheets.

Maybe all love is doomed to die
But soon the winds of December
Will visit our chambers and winter
Is too long to bear alone.

So lets us name each other love
Beside the fire, under the blankets
Until the warmth of faded summer
Return once more.

Have you ever seen
the earth give birth
to a new day at the
bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Well neither have I,
but I once stayed up all night
in an attempt to count the stars
and bring order to chaos.

In that moment,
head against grass against ground
I knew what it means to rest,
to be at peace for the first time.

Like all things that night it too
died along with peace and stars,
but sometimes in the right moments.
I can look up and feel at home.

At the exact moment night kiss me goodbye,
on the edge of a dying summer
I found hope at the tip of a pencil
that glided across line paper.

I wouldn’t call it the bottom
of Pandora’s box, but
for the first since I could remember
my heart started to beat again.

Not like a herd of racing horses
like they way poets fall in love,
but rather more like a leaky faucet
that has brought an end to this drought.

I ask don’t confuse this revelation
with a permanent conclusion.
It just a promise against odds
that recovery can be found in these words.

We were junkies who fell in love with moonlight
praise the heavens under street lights,
found God in the corner of graffiti covered alleyway.

We were  cracked in all the right places,
but never mistaken the shattered lines
for being broken, this is just how we made art.

Once, at two in the morning we found
the meaning of life scribbled on the back
crumpled up bar napkin filled completely with hearts.

And I swear that was the second most beautiful
thing I have ever seen. Of course the first being
they way this town burnt when we left it.

I wonder if God can forgive us?
Not for our sins, but rather
for all the words we didn’t say,
and all the ones we did.

It was February and the moon
was as full as your heart and
almost as bright as your eyes
when you said “I love you.”

I like a fool echoed it back.
Maybe because it was
so cold outside and you
were the first fire I ever known.

But what did I know of love?
Two weeks later, buried underneath
layers of blankets lost in the moment
I thought perhaps this is what love taste like.

Somehow I thought we could learn to
make our bodies stick together,
like a well packed snowball,
but cold and fire do not go together.

No matter how hard I tired
this body never could stick.
Still I played the part like a soldier's
who since forgotten what he was fighting for.

It was April when the deception
faded away with the last winter’s snow.
Still I could not learn how to love,
so you left, taking the only love I have ever felt.

Now it is July and I bask in the summer sun,
pray to be forgiven for not knowing how to open up.
Praying to be given another chance
at the thing the poets called love.

I was told to call this body home.
To walk barefooted through my veins
like they were red painted hallways
and to find a place to lay this head.

Still others say this body is a temple.
But what type of temple is not filled
with the faithful signing heavenly praise.
This body would be an empty church.

Now I don’t know much about God,
but I do know enough to say that
he wouldn’t visit this chapel.
These bones no longer know how worship.

If this body be not a home or a temple
then what is left but a prison.
A prison made of flesh to keep in
the last of a dying soul.

We, people like us,
the night children,
midnight dreamers,
star catchers.

Us who have tattooed
love upon our arms
then wear long sleeves
to cover it up.  

We have pulled back the veil
and dare to look behind.
Shined light upon the darkness
only to see our reflection.

Those who have stood
upon the edge,
daring the wind to push them over
I name you brother.

And you, who has been kissed
by the fire and yet
does not allow it to consume
you shall be called sister.

For we were made
for this moment.
And my God, we
are going to be great.

My mother always said
do not get too close to that which burns against the night.
If you touch something that is hot you will get burnt.
For what is a cup of water against the inferno.

When I met you,
burning like a spring wildfire,
turning brown to a hundred colors of red
I knew not to get to close.

I have known fires like you before.
You are the type that consumes everything.
Your kiss is a little to hard,
only leaving behind the taste of ash in my mouth.

You see I once knew another conflagration like you.
Her flame glowed liked heavenly fire.
I knew I had to touch her,
forgetting everything mother told me about getting to close.

Soon we burnt together, lighten up the sky like manhattan.
But it is true what they say about the brightest of fires,
they are always the first to burn out.
When her flame turned the other way, I burnt out.

Yet now another fire,
just as beautiful appears in front of me.
Though this time, I remember mother’s words.
My heart, still blistered from the old burns.

I knew now not to touch, but watch from the distances.
I could say I love the flame that was you,
the one that warmed my face like summer sunshine,
but how can you love without touching?

Like a fool I gathered water,
splashing it against the wall of your flames.
Trying to cool my to be lovers hand,
but how was I to know she too could drown.

You see her mother told her something too.
She said watch out for wave that lap against your ankles,
they try to pull you under, and your lungs,
they cannot handle that kind of pressure.

In my hubris I pulled under the flame,
drowning her in my waters, trying to claim her as mine.
But this time when the winds shifted,
I was the one to leave the coals smoldering.

When I was little, like all kids
I was afraid of the monster that
Lived under the bed.

Now that I am older
I am still afraid of monsters,
But now they don’t live under the bed.

My monster live in me.
Me who feeds the beast
Who screams at two in the morning.

Humans don’t make good cages,
Our bones are just too weak
To hold up against this burden.

I know because most days, when dawn
Awakes to kiss the horizon,
I am still at war to keep the beast within.

So when people ask me about the scars,
The ones that litter my wrist, my thighs, my back,
What am I suppose to say, but casualties of war.

Because this is the greatest battle
I have ever known:
The Battle of Monster in my Head.

They say the light that burns the brightest
is the first to burn out.
Would it be better, to not be the finest,
but rather be the last about?

One which leads to the longest flame
which burns against the night.
For surely it is no shame
in being the last of the lights.

Which rage on in the dark
to alight the endless sky
For it only takes a spark
To past along the light to defy.

The endless reach of night
which always roams about.
Though even the brights flames
is doomed to burn out.

Do you ever feel like maybe
there is something more to this
then half empty whiskey glasses
and empty hearts that can never be filled.

That maybe every morning when
the sun pulls itself out of bed, it is
not for waking us up too, but rather
beckoning us forward to live the life we were meant to.

What if the morning call was not
telling us to check our phones and
update our facebooks, but to whisper
our lovers name over and over again in their ear until they awake.

What if we were made for something
more than these mundane affections.
What if we were made for passion,
for adventure, for anything but this.

When I was a child, I always thought
I would burn like the brightest of flames,
but now the brightest part of my day
is when I close my eyes to end it.

Dear Future son,

When you open your little eyes for the first time
and look around at this great big place you will know
your privilege for the first time. I do not say this
as it is a bad thing, but I do not want you to forget.

When you are older you will say that this system is beautiful
they will shake their heads and tell you that this system is white.
This system was built for you upon their bones.
This is not a fault of yours, but you, you are American privilege.

When you become a man and walk down the street
you will not feel the urge to look behind you.
When they call your name you will not feel
fear brewing inside of your stomach; this is your privilege.

When the masses gather at your doorstep and
call for you to come and march with them
do not be afraid to hold their hands and stand beside them.
Let your voice raise to the heavens and merge with theirs.

Though do not think for a moment that this story is about you.
This story is old, has been told long before you.
The roots of your family tree do not grow here in this garden.
This is foreign ground, tread lightly here.

It is okay to feel proud when you stand beside your brothers and sisters.
Do not forget though, when you go home you can take off your armor
shed it like a second pair of skin, but remember that some people
only ever get one set of skin and some armor does not slip off.

You, like I, will go home to the children and drift off to sleep.
We dream and do not wake to worry about those we call family
we will never have to bear this burden.
This, this is our American privilege.

There once was an old maid who lived by the sea.
She summoned words from the waves, like Poseidon, the king.
With each splash on the shore, a tale would be spoken.
It was said when she spoke, dreams turned to pictures in the air,
and danced all about, likes leaves on a mid-autumn day.
Men came from far and wide to hear stories from this maid.

One day when her patrons gather around, she told of a maid
from a far distant town. Fair and young, she was a wife to the sea.
She swore a vow, to stay as pure as her love, for all of her days.
She captained her ship better than any man, even the kings
of the oceans who loved the sea long before she ever touched air!
When the Lords saw her past no words need to be spoken.

For the most noble of words were not as powerful, as the ones left unspoken.
Across the lands men spoke of her beauty in their traveling tales.
Though she gave them no notice, for she only cared for ocean air.
The world grew to know our fair maiden as the Lady of the Sea.
To our stories woe, there was a man who wish to be her king.
When the Lady of the sea, made harbor on one summer day.

The man and his host waited in the shadow, to make war that day.
Our lady, sorely outnumbered, made battle more fierce than ever before spoken.
As the sun begun to set, she yielded for her men and named that man her King.
On that blood bathed beach a wedding took place, to darken our tale.
And so with the rise of the moon came the rite of wedding night. Though the sea
never forgets any vows that was spoken in its air.

The lady woke from her slumber and went to breathe the salty sea air.
Yet she smelled nothing but the munade smell of day.
In panic, she ran with haste toward her true lover, the sea.
As she went to step into her water, her foot felt like fire! It was spoken
that the her cries could be heard around the sea, if we trust the tales.
The man who wanted her to call him King,

ran away from the lady and left her to her true King.
All around her, the pain she felt radiated into the air.
Her sea had forsaken her. Now all she had left was her tales.
Banished from the sea, to the end of her days!
Her only thing left, was the words spoken
from the sea.

Now our lady, tells tales by the sea, of days
when she left the words unspoken
when she was the Lady of the sea.

Do you remember
when we named each other love
beneath the willow?

We taught each other
to believe in forever
and even longer.

We knew this would never end,
we could elude noble time.
Beneath the willow

Under the summer
sun, we shared tales from time long
since faded away.

You asked what I believe in,
I told you my creation myth,
beneath the willow.

We found answers to
all of our greatest question
in each other arms.

Called it our own
happily ever after,
beneath the willow

Then the summer sun
begun to set and the leaves
of the willow faded.

Do you remember,
when we named each other love
beneath the willow?

The reaper always comes for his dues
I know this to be true,
he stole my heavenly muse!

On my knees I begged him not, yet he refused.
No matter my threats he never withdrew.
The reaper always comes for his dues.

Never once have I been more bemused
when the reapers came through,
he stole my heavenly muse!

I was half asleep, just taking a snooze
then he appeared right in front of my view!
The reaper always comes for his dues.

He looked at me and my muse, like he was trying to choose.
His hands reached out, to grab my muse, then he flew!
He stole my heavenly muse!

Out my window they cruised,
I, with shame, never pursued.
The reaper always comes for his dues.
He stole my heavenly muse!

I don’t know much about war,
and I know even less about love.
Though, I do know enough, to know
that love shouldn’t feel like a war.

Yet somehow I have always felt
like a soldiers behind the battle lines
drawn in the sand by Gods
who don’t know my name.

The other day someone asked me
“How come you don’t love yourself.”
To which I replied “How can you love
the greatest enemy you have ever known?”

Maybe people like me weren’t meant for this.
I learnt the best way to protect yourself
from  broken hearts is to let yours go, and
I have let that piece of me go a long time ago.

I don’t know much about war,
and I know even less about love.
Though I know that some games
shouldn’t be played, the cost is too high.

The sun rises up
on the endless red skyline
with a song of hope.

But is this flesh, not
more, than a cell for the soul.
A far greater prize.

I thought that the end would be poetic,
like our favorite novels that end so cleanly.

I thought it would end with a period
or exclamation point, even just a question mark.

Instead I was left with a simple,
unpunctuated sentence, that was cut off.

I now know that happy endings
are supposed to stay in favorite books.

Life is more complex than
perfectly squared endings in neat boxes.

Life ends in the middle of a verse-

This poem is for all the words that were never spoken
The ones that got caught half way up the throat
almost to their destination, but swallowed back down again.
The ones that die on the tongue, leaving only the bad taste of regret.

This is for all those who were afraid to say those words.
The would be lovers who never found the courage to speak their hearts desire.
The preacher who has lost his faith and to the sinner who found his.

This is for the 1 am street walkers who fell in love with shadows.
For their empty pockets and full hearts.
And all their unanswered prayers to gods that don’t know their names.

This right here, is for all the moments that we spent together
and all the moments that died before their time.
This is a kiss goodbye or maybe even a kiss hello.

This is for all the people who ever wanted to die before their time
and for all the ones who keep on struggling.
I know the pain that nights brings.

This is for me, me who is all of this things.
And for you, my midnight warrior,
who taught me that there is hope in tomorrow.

This poem is not a eulogy, but rather a resurrection,
for all of us who go too far and love the wrong people.
This is not our tombstone, but our declaration.

ack then I  used to believe in forever.
Call me naive but when we together
time no longer had any meaning.
The world was ours for the taking.

We built a shack and called it home.
There was room for the two of us
and that was all we ever needed
our own private forever.

Back then I used to believe in love.
When our lips met I mistaken the rockets
for fireworks but, this was no longer Children's play.
This was not the story we were promised.

Sometimes between the sheets I forgot about the war.
I forgot about those who were dying.
Pretending that these walls were a sanctuary.
Pretending that we, young and alive could not bleed.

But one can only make believe for so long.
These walls were built from wood
and our skin was not armour
and that was not a shooting star.

Back then I use to believe in forever.
Fire does not share my belief.
Flame does not know mercy.
And now all I believe in is ash.

Today I decided to forgive myself
for everythings I am not,
for everything I am.

I have lived this lie
for so long I have forgotten
the person who lays behind it.

Tonight, I will pile every ounce of regret,
every pound of hate in the back yard.
Then like a conquered city, I will set it ablaze.

This conflagration will be a
symbol of my self revolution
against everything that says “You can’t”.

Today, for the first time in, a long time
I will say “I can” over and over
till I start to believe it.

Sometimes we fall in love with the dark
and I of all people, know this best.
Sometimes we are too broken to
be healed by anything this world has to offer.
I have read this story a thousand times.

When I was 17 I learnt at 2 am
when you are not yet asleep,
and the voices have been
screaming inside of you for hours
your only friend is the darkness that surrounds you.

When her hand fits so perfectly within yours
how can you asked for a better lover?
She has always been there for you,
even when the rest of the word left
and you didn’t know, if you will see tomorrow.

And there has been so many days were
I didn’t know if I would ever see tomorrow.
Still early in the morning she has always
called me back before the sun as risen.
I have always came back.

When the white bird flies,

the sky catches on fire.

Then the fire bleeds to the village

and the village burns.



Do not be mistaken,

this is how you catch the bad guys.

We must catch the bad guys.

Don’t you know?



When the white bird flies,

she purifies in flame.

Replaces evil with ash

and ash cannot stop the oil flow.



But wait, there was a mistake.

backspace, backspace.

Control alt delete.

It is too late, the sky already burns.



And when the sky burns,

so does the village.

These were children,

Where were the bad guys?



When the white bird fails

It flies a thousand homes to its mother.

“We will try again, tomorrow,” she says

and then she turns the screen black.



Still the village burns

and children become orphans,

but the oils keeps flowing,

it always keeps flowing.

Pride was our weakness
before the skies caught fire
now our pride is ash.

Night was always best.
In the darkness we were one.
In light, separate.

I no longer want to feel like a bottom of a whiskey bottle
like the last sip of regret before my head hits the table.
This story I wish was a happy one but I know longer
know how to write the happy ones.

I have seen both heaven and hell, but of the worse I say neither.
The worst is the empty room, my own purgatory.
Here there is no joy, no pain just  an endless forever
and I have seen forever and I seen never.

The promise of tomorrow has became the threat of today.
Today is the abysses of which my toes stand upon the edge
Creeping ever closer to the final descent,
the leap into darkness, in pursuit of peace.

In that moment we
had forever together,
though never enough.

Last night it rained again
and with every drop,
I was trying to find God.

Because how else
would you get to earth,
from heaven, if not from spring rain.

Then as water began to
slip through my clothes
and kiss my skin

I wondered if he even
comes here anymore.
I am not sure I would.

I tried to write your resurrection
with a string of adverbs.
Tried to call breathe
back into your empty lungs with my words.

Some nights I will whisper
your name over and over again
as though the very act of repetition
will call you back.

I have learnt now,
that the walls of your casket
are just too strong to pierce
with similes and poetry.

Last night I cleared the desk.
Laid down the pen,
closed the thesaurus
and shelved the dictionary.

I said goodbye last night.
I shut off the light,
closed the door,
and walked away.