when they don’t love you back
and no poem, no movie, no book on this good earth makes you feel strong enough to walk away
you will stay.
dig your feet into the sand.
you bury them.
and wait for the tide to rise

you’ve tried it all before, haven’t you?
you’ve tried to be every person they ever loved, and they still don’t see you
so you think
maybe if you just yell a little louder, they’ll turn around and meet you halfway
you think maybe
maybe if you set yourself on fire they will pull you from the wreckage
giving anything for you not to turn to ashes
but it never works that way

you always thought heartbreak was hidden in silence
until he introduced you to the earth shattering symphonies made from the echoes of a dying heart and a soul’s last breath
you are alone but you will not leave
because you think the false idea of his company is better than not having any at all
so when he calls, you will answer
you will tuck your pain into your wallet
hide it into your back pocket
only to take it out when you want pay for one more night in his ghost presence

when he reaches across the table to hold your hand
you will notice his hands aren’t the soft memories of release you had once grown accustomed to
you will see how they’ve become cages and you are the entrapped songbird
writing melodies in hopes of discovering any trace of love left in him
but all you will find are broken and scratched records that don’t even get stuck on your favorite parts of the song
but you stay
and you can’t bring yourself to cover your ears
because some noise is better than none at all, right?

when he asks you over
you don’t want to but you will go
wearing his favorite outfit, his favorite perfume, straightening your hair because the curls were too much
you have found yourself a slave to an unwilling master
you will knock on his door and he won’t meet you at the top of the stairs like he used to
he won’t stand to embrace you when you walk in the room
you will sit in silence as you watch him work and convince yourself that this is exactly how it used to be…how it should be

when he asks if you want to stay the night
you will not answer
instead curl into a ball on the side of his bed you once called your own and try to find familiarity in what has become foreign territory
he will spill words down your throat that you will believe are remedies to your self hatred
you will breathe out “i miss you”
and he will tell you to stop saying that
you will mistake this for love

when morning comes you will find yourself hoping when he wakes and rolls over to see you sleeping
he will believe you are angelic, wake you with a kiss, and tell you he prefers to see your face bathed in the sunlight so he can admire every detail
but you know, he will not
you know, he likes hiding you in the cloaks of midnight where he can make your face look like anyone else’s but your own
and morning is just a reminder of the regret he chose you
because you are nothing but a cemetery to him
a place he goes to when he wants to reminisce over what is already dead

when they don’t love you back
and you can’t bring yourself to walk away
you will stay.
dig your feet into the sand
you bury them and wait for the tide to rise.
let an ocean of unrequited overtake your body.

a part of me drowned that night when you said you never loved me
i am still trying to learn how to resuscitate her and stop calling her murderer a past lover

i don't write in a journal anymore.
you are my journal.
i speak my thoughts aloud to you,
like a confession.

i tell you all my sad thoughts,
my dying wishes,
my hopes,
and my dreams.
you don't speak in return.
you just hold my hand quietly next to me.

silently we sit in my sins,
pooling to the ground like blood from an open wound.

Shadow is not Bad;
Respect it and Express it,
it will reward you.

Shadow is not Bad;
it is a Torrent that can
push forward, **** down.

It's your choice.

Shadow is not Bad;
heed it and give it the Space
that Shadow deserves.

Shadow is not Bad;
sublimate it into Art-
the **** out of Mind

It's your choice
before it's too late.

Shadow can be Bad
if it's ignored and repressed;
fed instead of led.

Shadow can be Bad
it can consume your Being
from the inside, out.

Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008

Trapped, A Sweet Nothing*

Creaky floor boards reveal my hallways travels,
Squeaky door hinges give my essays away,
Climbing back into bed, rouses you,
You ***, then come back to me,
Swing your leg over mine,
Instantly asleep, I am trapped.

This crumb of a sweet nothing,
Born and freed, another hidden tattoo
Inked, so no longer trapped,
Permanently free floating on the
Internet of us, but I, still plan my body's escape,
By kissing your neck's nape


7:34 am
7/27/13

It saddens me to think
How desperate you feel right now.

You can't see a future
And nobody seems to understand.

Well I know you don't want to hear this
But I'm begging you

PLEASE GIVE LIFE A CHANCE.

Because, trust me,
Things are going to get better
And I can't let you throw it all away
And miss the wonderful times that lie ahead.


But why should you listen to me?

After all,
Who the hell am I?

A concerned friend,
With lots to say
But no time to listen?

A well-meaning do-gooder,
With plenty of platitudes
But no real answers?

No.

I'm somebody who knows
Exactly what you're going through
And I am counting on you
To step back from the brink


For I am your future self.