Cloaked with
a false sense
of dignity
and importance,
I convince myself,
halfheartedly,
that if I can last
just one more night,
everything
will fall into place.

But with the dew,
the morning sun
evaporates
each drop of hope
I had mustered
in secret.  
Today
is the same as yesterday,
perhaps a little
worse.

I slip slowly
into irrelevance,
into the night
which I struggle with,
the night which
I now know well.

Silence
is pure
and beautiful.
One can make
such powerful
statements with
silence.
I do not need to ask
if I am wasting their time,
or if I am boring,
their silence
answers all my questions.

Give me strength
to act boldly
or courage
to endure myself,
I do not know
which to ask for,
for I cannot have both.

The drops of mist from crashing falls
descend upon my face
and scatter in the whirling breeze
to dance in playful grace.

I yearn only to be
understood,
each action
decipherable,
each sentiment
understandable.
I do not yearn to be loved,
just understood.

Tonight,
I dread to sleep.
My fingers are restless,
they yearn to write,
but alas,
I have nothing to write.

It is not that I have been bled dry,
it is just I have not lived.
To sleep,
to live,
it seems that
I am unable to do either.

What would a good man do?
Surely
more than I,
no?

I am ready to drift
into the endless night,
as if it were an ocean.
Like waves of the tide,
my dreams will wash over me.
But I do not mind.
In them are
the reflection of
the stars.

It is only at night
that the constellations can be seen.
Here, I can find my way.
Which dream,
which constellation,
shall I see tonight?
Who will appear
by my side?

What wonders a night of sleep can do,
if you can fall asleep.

Today,
I am singed with regret.
I have forgotten
how to find my way in life,
my reasons for writing poetry,
as well as
sunscreen.

In disheartened passion
my heart melts
like the sunset of a
spaghetti western film.

Emerald pools
that pour into
cascades of foaming white,
thrashing about;
waterfall.

When faced on questions
of nothingness
one must ask
if meaning had been supposed.
In light of this,
even the greatest of disgraces
can be weathered,
the greatest of heartaches
can be understood.

Must one question
the implication of nothingness?
Surely, you understand.
It is something always present
and only uncovered,
to be learned
time and time again.

If nothingness breaks your heart,
you have presumed
that it was not nothing
from the start.
It is a matter of expectation,
one which could have never been true.

Boredom is the enemy of
contentment.
To love
is to mould the other's
emotions,
for better or worse.
We cannot get away
with a passionate
nothingness.

Above all things,
I know bitterness
because I was born
without having been asked.

It seems that
there are some lessons
that can only be learned
the hard way.

I am like
a small dog,
every second
I need confirmation
that I am loved.
Every absence
encases an eternity
of solitude.

Was I
a good boy?
I might have been told so
a few minutes ago
but how about now?
My self doubt
will last forever,
only to be dispelled the next time
you place your hand on my head.

But withdraw your touch
and the next eternity
starts again.

Summer blue
and egg whites
smeared across
the horizon.

It will rain soon.

To happiness and health
and future prospects
of wealth.

Why the obsession
of not experiencing pain?
So what if all that I do
or try
is a futile effort?
Pain is reassurance that
I am correct in my feelings,
and rare proof
that connects me
to great poets of the past.

Everything in my life
is filled with a lightness,
a brevity,
I do not take anything too seriously anymore.
All is as it should be,
just as my pain should strike me bitterly,
my affection will act to unburden me
of emotions too heavy to carry in secret.

There are only dire consequences in loving too little,
One can justify the suffering associated with loving too much.

When the heart is in anguish
so few people matter.

We are all consumed by flames
which can only be quelled
by the delicate touch
of another.
But it only matters who
not how.
As long as they try,
we can come up with an infinite amount
of justifications
to excuse ourselves of our sadness.

But think of those who try
and do not a thing for our sorrow.
They are the ones who write poems
about anguish in their hearts.

My footsteps,
like finger tips
on a piano,
play a
lonely song.

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.

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.

I have been called,
a few times already,
a hopeless romantic.
I am misunderstood!
First, I must ask,
what is it that I must hope for?

I strive for pure, absolute love.
Everything else is beside that.

I only want to love
for the sake of love.
I only want to express love,
for the sake of expressing love.

I do not hope for reciprocation,
which is what I suspect others suspect of me.
I am successful if I can express affection
in a readily appreciable way.
If I can express love,
I can attain fulfilment and satisfaction.
I need nothing more.

When given the choice
to treat a loved one with either
bitterness or tenderness,
must you really think twice about your decision?
Then at which point does what you receive in return
play a part?
Will you really deprive yourself of the opportunity
of giving love
if you receive nothing in return?

Selfishness is at the heart of entitlement.
To say, "I will not give if I cannot receive"
is the peak of entitlement.
It is natural to feel pain in the face of
total rejection,
however this is only the burden that you must bear
in the name of love,
proof that your feelings are steadfast and genuine.

To withdraw your oaths of affection
after the fact
is an admission to have never loved at all.
I must remind you that
your emotions entitle you to nothing.
We have no reason to be selfish.

Again I ask,
why deprive yourself the opportunity to give love?
Shall you really withdraw water from a beautiful flower
that blooms in someone else's garden?
If affection really drives us,
is the wellbeing and happiness of the person in question
not more than enough to suffice?

I find that in matters of pure love,
the self is rarely concerned.
The self is merely a vessel to deliver.
How is it that we have arrived at the notion
that is also a vessel to receive?

Alas, I do not mean to say
that we may only love one person in a single life.
The contrary.
There is always room for someone new,
and there is always room to give,
and to give freely,
without expectation to receive anything in return.
Would you not agree that this is the mark of
pure, absolute love?

I can only see as far
as the ocean's horizon.
Why despair
of things beyond it?

How uncertain we are of the future!
We will only experience the present.
And so I ask,
why despair of things
beyond the horizon of the eternal now?

If it is as a storm that brews off the coast,
we are powerless to stop it.
Who has stood helplessly at the shore
without taking shelter,
when faced with a great storm?
We may only accept it.

How is it that I should learn from others?

Shall I observe a drunk man
stumble across the street
and say,
"This is a poor man,
whose inner-self is in such turmoil
that he must nullify it with alcohol.
Somewhere, he has chosen wrongly in life
and may I not retrace the errors
that have produced such wrong"?

Or shall I point at a beggar and say,
"This is a poor man,
whose condition is so outwardly wretched,
even God seems to cast him away in disgust.
Somewhere, he has chosen wrongly in life
and may I not retrace the errors
that have produced such wrong"?

Although, such retrospective thoughts come with some truth,
it is also accompanied with great vulgarity.
Who is unworthy of love?
Thus, who can be deprived the chance for change?
We all must fail in at least one thing,
why persecute those with courage to live through failure?

The lesson learned from such men
is not in the now.
It is in the past,
which bears realities which none can alter,
and in the future,
of which any can change.
Is there a man more
admirable,
worthy of love,
than he who overcomes his past?

Are you aware of the pasts of those around?
And yet how quickly we can judge.
How many times have we dismissed someone
on the cusp of something great?
We are all worthy of love,
who are we to spend it sparingly?

To the drunk,
I bid him good cheer and good luck,
and to the beggar,
I will buy him bread.
These men are capable of great change.

Even in bitterness
and deep despair,
I know I am on the doorstep of
great love.

Who, when asked to prove
the genuineness of their affection,
would draw back?
If asked to suffer for their ideals,
who would renounce them?

If I am suffering,
it is for a great cause,
it is to prove that I can live purely,
and feel purely,
unable
unwilling
to compromise
on fundamental matters
of both soul and heart.

Again,
I listen to Chopin,
read Byron,
in search of
a reason.

It is a wonderful book.
It has not changed my life,
but confirmed it.

Where passion wanes,
patience will succeed.
Even embers are a sign of life
and must be cared for
lest they turn to ash.

I wish desperately
for the opportunity to announce that
The moon looks beautiful, tonight.

For me, it is like a fever dream.
One night, perhaps.

I was thinking about you the other day,
and decided that
I wanted to write about you
one last time.

Do you remember the letter you gave me
on Valentine's day?
It's a funny story, actually.
It's still in its little bottle.
There's no way I can get it out,
I've tried so many times,
I've nearly torn the letter to bits
by picking at it with a pair of tweezers.
I can smash the bottle,
however that letter was written over
4 years ago.
How can I bring myself to read something
that is addressed to someone,
that at the time,
you had said you loved?
To read it now feels as though
I am intruding on something
I have no business in seeing.

Near the end, do you remember when you told me
that I had reminded you of your father?
I have never felt more ashamed of myself.
I was crushed.
But did I ever apologize?
I am not sure.
I am so sorry.
Why did I make you feel that way,
I wonder.

Do you remember a couple years ago,
out of the blue,
I invited you out for dinner
after not speaking to you for years?
When you agreed,
I was ecstatic,
I looked forward to it the entire week,
but then you said you couldn't go
and that ******* broke my heart.
For just one night,
I wanted to show you
tenderness.
I had written a letter,
I worked on it for weeks,
it was page upon page
of things I was sorry for.
And you never got it.
You said we'd reschedule,
but I have not received a message from you since,
and I did not want to pester you.
But I've fixed some of my bad habits.
People now say that I am kind.
****
I wish that I could have shown you that.

I remember you telling me that
you had hung all the poems
and letters I had given you
on your bedroom wall
for your entire family to see.
I wonder if they are still there?
I hope not.
You should throw them all away.
I used to keep a copy of every poem
and letter I ever wrote,
but I've since ripped them to shreds.
They were terrible,
honestly.
Please throw them away.
What I regret most is
that I used to sign letters with my name.
I no longer do that.
What was important to know was not that Leo had wrote a letter,
rather,
that the letter had been written.
Leo has nothing to do with it.
Perhaps
knowing it was Leo who wrote it
would make it seem
cheaper or
worse than it actually is.
Or at least that is what you made me think
while I was eating dinner alone
on a certain night a couple years ago.

I am happy for you,
I really am.
It makes me feel so nostalgic
seeing you in love.
Your boyfriend seems like a nice guy
although I have no idea what he is saying.
Perhaps it is time I learn a language other than English...

And with that, I bid you, adieu.
Perhaps we will cross paths again,
perhaps not!
But this will be the last time
I ever write about you.

Selfishness only breeds jealousy
is a phrase I have repeated
hundreds,
perhaps,
thousands
of times.

It is like medicine.
In a bout of melancholy,
I simply must repeat this phrase
a few dozen times,
and I am okay,
in fact,
maybe I am better than okay.

When exactly shall I learn
that I do not need to be a part of
anything?
I can do an act purely for the sake of the act itself.
There is no need for self gratification.
Surely, there are others who have
lived selflessly before.
Then what is my excuse?

Under my breath,
I mutter once again,
Selfishness only breeds jealousy,
ahh...
It doesn't really help, does it?

I can never spell this flower's name
from memory.
If I were to walk through a garden,
would I be able to discern
the chrysanthemum from other flowers?
I feel as though,
this is how others
think of me.

To be known or not,
a flower is still a flower,
and that is not nothing.

During the shooting of
Fellini's movie
8 1/2
he had a sign that said
"This is a comedy",
to remind the actors
that it was all a farce.

I feel that perhaps
I am sometimes misunderstood.
All my emotions are tempered,
I exaggerate only for effect.
I can pace myself
in both happiness and
misery.
Should I, too, hang the sign,
"This is a comedy"
on every poem I write?

If not,
I will settle
for
tenderness.

I throw away
a tube of toothpaste
to discover
it was the last one.
In bitter defeat
I fish the toothpaste out of the trash
and attempt to squeeze out,
once more,
a morsel
of toothpaste.

During the time
in between
my two most recent mosquito bites,
we had met
and you had left.
Tonight,
I pensively trace over
the brim of the
first mosquito bite of the year,
reminiscing.

In view of others,
I am of little consequence.
It is as though I am
a dandelion seed,
left to the whim of a storm,
or a bleeding lamb
encircled by a pack of
prowling wolves.

I can be torn apart easily,
flesh from bone,
soul from body,
for practically free.
The smallest cuts would easily
bleed me for all I have.
My heart is crushed by the simplest things,
just as I can be crushed
by the simplest of men!
One word, that is all I need,
for a sleepless night.
My imagination is wild,
and needlessly cruel.
In my own head,
I've imagined different ways that
I will be humiliated, hurt and killed!
At night, my insecurities run amok
and race through my head
with an incessant screeching,
carving into the inside of my skull
new ideas, new doubts about myself
which, by daybreak,
I learn are actually true!
Ha, it's ******* pathetic!

They are wolves!
And I am to be slaughtered!
Almost as if it's for show.
It happens daily.
I wonder at this point
is there any limit to my embarrassment?
Won't someone deliver me from my own shortcomings
and faults?
I wait, but all that come are
wolves,
tearing away at me, once again,
for another night!
Oh, how I tire of it!
I know I am inadequate,
of little physical worth,
but must they be so brazen about it?
I wish to be alone sometimes,
but I am equally terrible company.
The sobbing,
the rambling,
I am a boring person
who has earned his ridicule!

Sometimes, in retaliation,
I try to cast away the ghosts
by writing poetry.
But even I struggle to say it is worth reading!
A disgrace to the art, if I do say so myself.
But don't get me wrong,
it is not nothing to be called a disgrace,
even terribleness must have its maestros.
Perhaps, I am one!
I have found my place then!
In the *******!
Ha. Ha. Ha.

The longevity of my existence
is seemingly at the mercy of others.
How little would it take it to
forget someone like me?
If it is wished,
I can be snuffed out,
put out
like embers
and turned into ash,
it would be so easy,
they could do it
without even knowing.
Who will remember me then?
And what will they remember?
Someone who could be stamped into the dirt
and disintegrate, like crumbs of refuse.
Perhaps it would be more merciful
to forget me than
to be remembered as that!

When my feelings are hurt, I always retreat.
And where do I retreat?
Of course, it is here,
into poetry,
where I can trade shame
for mediocrity,
where I can pretend that
I am above it all
because I write a little bit
of **** prose,
some garbage that equates to
nothing more than
whimpering.
You sometimes have to laugh at yourself.

But one day,
I will be better.
The wolves will still
feed upon me.
But I will be better.

I am troubled,
despite the fact
I feel as though I am
perched on a cloud.

Does a flower
announce its blooming?
Likewise should I announce
each happiness
and sorrow?
I am in such conflict about this.

Part of poetry is to
exaggerate through
omission.
Here, I can only
show what I had felt,
never tell.

I wonder if I have adequately expressed,
with the few words I have wrote,
that all my poems are about
the things I have purposefully omitted?

Tonight, my heart is a torrent.
I wish to use names,
but I cannot.
I wish to state my emotions,
but I must not.
Perhaps it is because I am
not truly a poet,
but all I can do is
emphasize absence.

Everyday, I am tired,
Oh so tired
I might fall asleep at work
And get myself fired~

Seeing her was the same as
walking outside
and discovering
that the sky is blue
and finding it
absolutely beautiful.

I wish to experience life
as honestly as possible.
I have had enough of
my longings for
permanence and certainty.

Alas, must I stake a claim
on the sky to find fulfilment?
Do I need to own it all
to love it?
Should I resent those who
look upon the same sky as I?
Envy the clouds which
occupy it?

The sky was there before
me
and will be there after
me.
And that is a comforting thought,
I suppose.

I fear that I have been found
but at least I can I change my name,
but to those who know my face...
It is hard to do the same!

At night,
I have a terrible urge
to be sentimental.
It's as if my insecurities
are a Datura bud,
lying dormant in the day,
but flowering under the moon.