Sometimes
we have no choice
but to express ourselves
terribly.
That is why
there are so many poets,
yet so little
worth reading.

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.