All of poetry deserves to be written,
but so few of it deserves to be read.

I write to
relinquish myself of
private sorrows.

I read these poems
and think to myself
"I have not suffered enough".

They are nothing,
least of all
beautiful.

In Bukowski's poem
Nirvana,
the narrator leaves
a diner
where it was
warm and
beautiful,
with an allure
that would tempt a man
to stay forever.
As he leaves to board a bus,
he notices that
no one else had
felt the magic.

When I retrace
my moments of pure
happiness,
I find them so
warm and
beautiful.
But had they
felt the magic?

The many shades of blue;

the ocean,

the sky,

the mountains,

the eyes
that,
with tenderness,
haunt me like
a domestic spectre.

The emptiness that
ravages my being
would be filled
in an instant
with just a glimpse
of that smile.
Even if it were fleeting,
just the sight of it
could justify
endless solitude.

What does one think of
in order to fall asleep?
All that I care to think about
keeps me awake.

Today,
I fight irrelevance.
I wrestle with it
as one wrestles with
shadows or
the urge to *****.

I must admit,
it is an overdramatized,
drawn out tussle.
In my head,
it is as if the world is
collapsing,
memories reduced to
cinders,
my being
turned to ash.
But in reality
it is just another passing
of the day,
as one lends itself to the next,
the nights growing shorter,
all is well
it seems.

I cannot come to
agreeable terms
with fate.
I cannot accept that,
for certain people,
I have already lived
my moments of importance.

Each time I remember
the few fragments
of intimacy in my life,
I become less convinced
that I should suffer
in passivity.
There is a pang of desperation
reverberating in my heart
that moves me to action.

Somedays,
I wish no more to reminisce,
I say
silly things.
"I shall recreate my memories,
but this time with urgency,
vivaciously,
with life
and love,
and create from it
new memories that
I will struggle to believe
are mine."

I go out
and find no one waiting.
Had I not been here long enough
to have at least
one person
think of me?
Such are my thoughts,
as I look pensively at the moon
with memories of
a head resting against my shoulder
or conversations with
people whose names I have forgotten,
swirling in my head.