Better jealous, better hated, better
Dismissed than be allotted false praise and joy.
A man is his own pride, his own defeat
He ought to know his place and worth; his price.
Besmirched with equal fault, with equal blame
Not one may stand pristine nor pure, alike
The worst we deem in those disdained at heart.
I flinch when I recall the days before
I saw in each a flicker of contempt
As if it could no longer be concealed.
An honest life is all I want to lead;
No pittance due, no pity earned, no worth;
To hate myself and be hated by them.

I am justly inadequate
no one knows my name
the strangers I pass by
all treat me just the same.
They never ask about my day
or if I feel okay,
we all look on in silence
repeating yesterday.

I am justly inadequate
I work hard to be not enough
my conscience is never heavy
but my heart isn't up to *****.
My hands are warm and loving,
callused, hard and rough,
a willing heart without a reason
just never has been enough.

I am justly inadequate
I stare out windows thinking that
if I could just be someone else
then I would get a chance
to be the man I could have been
but as I am, I know I can't.

I am justly inadequate
no one knows my name.
And every time I try to laugh
I can only muster shame.
I try to smile,
once in a while,
to trick the gloom away,
but I still know that I am
inadequate any day.

Whenever I am around others, I often think of how I should treat a stranger.
Do I treat them with equal disdain and caution?
Treat them with a consistent coating of hatred?
A hatred that transcends bigotry and racism
To achieve misanthropy in its purest form?
Or rather compassion, a struggle to understand despite regrettable conduct?
More lately, as I have grown older, I have opted more for compassion.
As a child, I often had sympathy for others,
I always found something in my mind for someone to be sad about,
And in my heart, I ached for them.
When I had become older, I thought this as a means to look down on others,
And it must be stopped,
Thus sympathy was replaced with complacency
Which flared, sometimes, into anger.
This anger developed into distrust, which blossomed into disbelief,
And this disbelief gave birth to disdain.
And for a while, I could hate someone just by looking at them,
Or by witnessing them in the midst of an unsavory act.

But as an old man now,
I opt for compassion.
As a child, I believed that people should be mourned for,
As a young adult, I believed that people should be hated,
And as a dying man, I believe that people should be forgiven.
For years, I have wondered what it meant to be compassionate.
Was offering a seat to an old lady on the bus compassion?
Was tightly clasping hands with your partner during ******* compassion?
Were the two inclusive or exclusive?
Did you have to tightly clasp the hand of the old lady on the bus during ******* to show compassion?
Was compassion tough love?
Was compassion for the greater good?
Was compassion being fair?
Or was compassion allowing someone to cheat?
Was compassion the courage to tell a lie?
Was compassion the courage to tell the truth?
Was compassion knowing when to make a compromise?
Was compassion all this and more?

I think of her occasionally, on this long train ride,
On this journey to the end of the night.
What I remember of her
Is the calm sun with the thunder following it,
I remember what I wanted to do
And I remember what I did not do.
I remember her fondly,
Free of hatred, free of lust,
Free of any interpretation other than someone that I had loved.
And although there are many ways to express compassion,
This is mine for her.

It was never my fear that, upon first seeing me,
She would deem me inadequate and reject me entirely right there and then.
It was the coming thunder,
When formalities are finished and our feelings are confirmed,
Where she thinks herself content with my company,
That shook me to my foundation with anxiety.
I cannot help but think,
That even in contentment,
A seed of doubt may find fertile soil in her heart,
And sprout a sudden longing,
A quiet panging,
Which reverberates through the days that grow longer and longer in length,
With each echo leaving a more and more profound impression.
And when this panging starts to get louder,
Until it is akin to church bells in her heart,
It will rouse her from her sleep-like state of contentment,
And have her find that something feels a bit off.
At first, she will not be able to put her finger on it,
But slowly she figures it out;
My images of her set in marble turn into plastic,
Lines of poetry begin to smudge as if written in cheap ink,
Letters begin to fox with its yellowing paper feeling dated to the touch.
And she suddenly realizes in the midst of others,
That this is not enough for happiness.
And then, by chance,
She misplaces a single glance,
Only to find something new
Something beyond contentment and I.
The skies begin to darken and grey storm clouds roll in,
And the thunder strikes,

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Perkodhuskurunbargg­ruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititill­ibumullunukkunun

This, I fear above all else.

She looms large;
Takes charge;
Lives fast;
Thinks last.

She feels sick;
Isn’t?
Acts worse
Dies first.

Not I, shall claim, to know what is now next
After the summer sun subsides and sets
Below the roads which all scatter from here,
It is not I who knows, not I indeed.
Not long ago, a woman sat atop
A bed without her clothes, counting copecks;
A cotton shawl rested upon a chair,
And her kerchief neatly folded by it.
Her blue eyes hum a gentle song that day,
They swell in agony, as another
Man leaves quietly from her room with speed.
Her heart beats pleadingly, as if to ask
Forgiveness from her God, the supposed
Holy Father, who sees all his children
In equal love and, I should add, disdain.
How her chest heaves in despair over what
Had just transpired, she sobs as if to beg
the Almighty Father to look away,
Although her God could have delivered her
From such a life, He opts to watch instead;
How merciful He is, a God of love!
Outside she knows no respite from her deeds,
Her neighbours look upon her with such scorn
And snicker as she passes by in shame.
A sinner she is baptized as, as though
It had been her own choice to live this life.
In haughtiness, they may proclaim, that God
Gave her a chance to choose the life for her
And it was she who chose to be a *****.
Yet how could she desire to live like this?
Her father was a drunk and did not work,
Her mother died when she was but a child,
And her new father’s wife is consumptive
With three children to look after herself,
Not one of them can work, not one but she!
And what shall she do as her family
Cries out to God for generosity?
Shall she go to school as her mother dies?
And if this is the path to go, from where
Will she draw funds? What money does she own?
Should she ignore a child in need of food?
If not, what job, what place, would employ her
With wage to feed a family of five?
In fact, what place shall pay her more than what
She needs if she should live a frugal life?
What choices she has been given, look at
The life she has to choose! To live forever
Upon the cost of others on the street,
As beggars dressed in rags and dirt who will
Without a doubt, perish when winter comes,
Or delve in sin, in order to provide
What seemingly that God cares not to give.
What grand a choice dear Sofya now has!
The gravity of her next decision
Shall now make a martyr of a maiden
Or make now a harlot of a hero.
And thus she sobs, as she is robbed of heart,
Of soul, of hope. Yesterday she had woke
To such the same, and more to come,
If only God, and I do beg thee God,
That she will be delivered from such strife.
For now, for her, today, it seems, that the
Next day shall bring not but the same for her.
However I claim not to know what’s next
After the summer sun subsides and sets.

The subtle turn of neck
Exposed skin, collarbone shown
Shoulder, slender, hand, in air
Slight smile, red lips
Dimples that crunch the corner of cheeks
Crossed legs; hairless
Soft ankle, gentle foot
The arching bridge
Of the sole
Timid fingers, curled
Ready to point
Ready to pluck
Heartstrings.

Company; friends
Distance
It is unfair.

I think I would understand
If it were outwardly cruel
But such heartaches speak
In quiet undulations,
Hard to catch inclinations,
A half-moment,
A heartbeat,
A second too late to take back
The things you did not say
When they asked about
The weather or your new shoes.

The shoulder shrug
The empty bus
The hands held
At a distance
Amidst crowds
For anyone to see
It was enough to make you think
Why be so honest
How can someone be so brash
Without saying a word.

It comes suddenly
After it’s easy to realize
They never looked
They did not listen
Or even read
It did not occur because
Value is relative,
It does not matter,
People are busy
Although you may write.