The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I know I'll die and when it comes
I want no flowers displayed
I will hate you if you offer flowers at my wake
Why didn't you do when I was alive?
When I can enjoy the moment,
When I can feel special and loved,
It's unfair for you to give me flowers
At the time when I am withered,
Couldn't breathe,
Not able to appreciate,
And not able to say thank you for it.

My poetry’s dark,
Though the release from writing
Can lighten my soul.

I LIKE TO SAY YOUR NAME

I like to say
your name

when you're
not here

turn you
into sound

conjure you out of
thin air

so that you appear
before me

dressed in sound
only

memory sketching in
the rest of you

as if sound
was just an outline

and love
colours you in

adding the voice last
so I can hear you say.

"Hello you..!"
and there you are

as present
as present

can be.

I like to say
your name

when you're
not there.

I see passion in the way you ignore me,
your grave attempts to evade my gaze
But your eyes meet mine
and they can't look away

I still pine
       for what I’ve lost
               the promise and
                               fulfillment.

I still search my memory
                for hidden fragments
                                 of that treasure.

     Time has covered
                some of them in
                            shadows of nostalgia.

     But the flaming pain
                        still brightly burns and
                                      tears will not extinguish it.
                        ljm