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.

How do I reconcile
longing and
moderation?

To see something
that I covet
given away so freely,
as if nothing,
is maddening.

Oh, how cruel!
It only matters who,
not how.
In such matters
merit is not determined
by pain.

Alas, I suppose.

I am fortunate that she
can act as though nothing has happened.
It is a mercy!
However, in rejection,
I am afforded one luxury
which makes it all worth it:
She can see, clearly, how I suffer.

There is a nagging feeling
that I cannot shake
which tells me
the last time my name will be uttered
by a specific pair of lips
is passing shortly.

Once more, I rewrite
a line of poetry
from one of the great poets
as one would meticulously retrace
the outlines of an image.

The placement of each period,
the choice of a particular word,
if one of these were amiss,
it would be all for naught,
but my!
How each word, each line
supports the other,
what beauty!

Ha!

What beauty indeed!
The more I know,
the more it burns
like celluloid!
Fuelling anguish in my heart!
And oh dear!
What a jealous heart I have!
Surely, others must feel the same.
Is it so hard to discern beauty?
Can we not read?
Yet why is it so elusive to recreate something
even a fraction as eloquent?
Do we not spectate the same Earth?
Such mockery!
To recognize such and be unable to recapitulate it!
All things of significance
have already been written.
All else is imitation!
And how much more it aches to know
that I am a cheap one at that!

At least just once in my life,
could I not write just one line
equal to this?
I do not ask for much.
Just one line!
Then I could proudly brandish
whatever mediocrity I amount to,
like a brand burnt into my flesh.

Bruised knuckles
and
broken hearts,
with the smell
of *****
in the back of the car.

For a second,
suspended by the beam
of a street lamp,
a snowflake
sputters to the ground.

I have envy
for the flower.
It blooms quietly,
blind to the world.

If only I could
emulate the flower.

There is something terrible welling from within me,
Sudden anxiety and hate!
What a concoction!
It drives me up the wall!
I am compelled to act,
And yet to act on what?
I wish to retaliate
But it is as if I'm grasping for the wind!
An invisible enemy!
No matter,
If this is punishment, I accept it wholeheartedly.

I only wish to live honestly,
No secrets! No lies!
If it is as though I am nothing
then so be it!
I am nothing!
If failure is the price for honesty,
Then I will covet failure above all else!
I do not want for a sense of happiness,
I want finality!
If you are done with me,
Then that is that!
I will be no more!
As the morning mist is to daybreak!

How can a man wake each day
And find his image in the mirror constantly disagreeable?
Surely, there is a limit,
Something must move him to action.
Even if I am regarded in disgust,
at least I can come to terms with that,
but I'd rather know than to struggle with self doubt.
I am willing to accept myself for who I am,
However there is no mirror to tell me what exactly is my worth.

You may ponder, "but oh, what does he mean?"
I am embroiled in inner conflict!
I wish only for release,
Let me be worth something or nothing,
In the long run it does not matter,
Just let me accept myself for who I am.

"One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;
Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail."

My mind is made up.
For the first time in my life,
I will be aggressive.
I do not care about failure,
I am resolved to deal with it,
I just hope
it will be a private defeat.
Could I bear the humiliation
of both being
refuted
and known?

I am rarely satisfied
with the words that I choose
to express myself with.
In the end,
I settle for an approximation
of what I had wanted to say.
How often do I find myself
falling short
of a truly beautiful sentiment?

To say less
is more telling
of how I feel.
Oh, how life seems
so loosely constructed.
We never express ourselves honestly.
One must infer meaning
from shadows;
we understate ourselves
or even lie,
in hopes that in this
the truth can be understood.

Having been given much to contemplate,
I struggle to dissociate myself from desire.
The interactions I treasure
stem from a perpetual longing for more.
Such thoughts are dangerous
for we are as pockets of air
floating to the water's surface.
We are only together briefly
before dispersed by fate.

What then will become of me
when I long for that which
has already passed?

Although reciprocation would be ideal
it does not have to be all or nothing.
If I can be
as a single flower is to the meadow
then I am content.

It takes but
a single glance
to win
what
heartbreak
cannot
achieve.

The courage
it takes
to muster
a few words
on her behalf
have bled me
for years,
it seems.

I rehearse conversations
that I will never have
and yet
find myself
perpetually
unable to say
what I had truly meant.

On particular days,
when the weather is fine,
it is difficult to distinguish the cerulean sky
from the sea.

I stare listlessly from a window
on the 13th floor
and envy the flash
of a passing seagull.

It passes me by
as if this is all
nothing
and fades into the shoreline.

I suffer bitterly wondering if
I had been as meaningful
to someone as
this seagull had been to me.

I could be at peace knowing
I had amounted to at least that much
during my
short time here.

Perhaps then,
I could forego
the whole chirade
and let her pass me by
as if it were
all nothing.

Instead of
sleeping
I spend my time
waiting.
Not once has
it paid off.

I rarely get enough sleep.

I would like to meet again
Perhaps on sea or shore
If you would like to meet again
I promise I won't bore!

I wish to emulate
the chirping bird
who sings freely
amongst its peers.

Too often
I am caught up
in which words to say
or the placement
of a line.

Seldom
do I actually write
what I had felt.

Flashes of the past,
like light flickering
from a nearby stream,
are a tacit reminder
of all that I could have been.

She is with
another man
but she is alive!
she exists!
to have found her
makes me feel as though
all is well in the world.

I will always remember you
Just like
How an old library book remembers
Coffee stains.

I wished a wish
upon a star,
a wish so small
on such so far.
I won't be sad if
it does not come true,
to have is a wish
is something too.

On the bus ride home
I woke up
with my face resting
against the shoulder
of a stranger.

I look at my poems
and find
that they are
worth writing
but not
reading.

I peered into a sink
and a fish
glared
blankly
at me.

such dull
lifeless eyes
struck me with
a hint of
fatalistic humour,
as if asking me
"what is for dinner?"

fellas
what's with
all the arguing?
words won't solve anything.
strip him down
and take his ****
and measure it by the inch.
that'll decide it.
beat the **** of them
and whoever
doesn't die first
that's who's right.
carve chunks of flesh
out of his arm
and make him dance
while he *****
a thousand pretty women,
just so he can show
how the facts are on his side.
let him pray to god
and ask
to **** every *******
who is different
and let god do as he does
as if everyone was a *******
philistine.

I pen a poem
about
a beautiful
flower,
and think that maybe
it is about a woman instead.

in disgust,
i throw it away.

not that i hate her,
the contrary,
but to me,
it seems,
a flower cannot be a flower
and a woman
cannot be a woman.

There is futility
in this relentless
carnal
thirst
that paralyzes me
like a knife
in my gut.

i revile ***
yet it is inescapable.
literature is
littered with it
as if
it's something
worth celebrating,
to be written about
over and over again
with the same words,
with the same ****** phrases
that attempt to approximate it
to something pure
pristine
something valuable,
as if it is not done
out of utter necessity
to keep
that knife
out of their gut.

the intense desire
to put a ****
into a ******
or an *******
is worthless,
yet unrelenting.
it is as bukowski has said,
a dog from hell.
it comes like the tide,
it never leaves,
whether it is satiated or not,
it's always there,
creeping,
waiting,
throbbing,
what terrible stuff.

if to truly love
one must ****
then love is not worth it,
then love itself is futile,
to give is nothing
and to reciprocate is nothing
in the face of eternity,
i am so tired of it,
let it stop.

She usually says nothing
but we get along just fine
sometimes better than fine
sometimes words are not needed

this morning
she stared at me
with such deliberate longing.
perhaps it's incorrect to say
she stared at me,
she stared into me
asking with her bright brown eyes
how did it come to this?

i tried to return with a stare of my own,
but i know it is no use
sometimes words are not needed.

Simply
saying
her name
makes me feel
as if
I am
rising steam
during a
cold morning.

To spend your spare time
On someone else
Is an immeasurable
Act of kindness.

How many times have I been saved
By a stranger
Who wanted to talk about the weather?

And I don't
even know
the father's
name.

It would be better
if I never
thought of it ever
again.

I've
got to
focus on
the happiness
that I've got

Are her words,
not mine.

A paper wasp
Is stuck on my bus.
She is whisked away from her nest,
Miles and miles away.
I watch her,
Pensively,
As she crawls across my hand.
She will never make the trip back,
I think,
We have gone too far.
I look at her,
And in pity,
I dab a bit of juice on my finger
For her to drink.

The flower blooms
Without thought of whom
Is watching.
She will continue to exist
With or
Without me.

In my brief life
I have amassed more years
Than moments
Where I felt
Alive.

I had
Adored
The plum tree
In my backyard.

I often think
What if I were
A plum.

I could be at peace
And rot away
Knowing
I had just been a plum.

I am caught between
Two types of wills.
A will
To live
And a will
To be read
After death.

Perhaps I had lived,
Just as petals
Of a flower
In autumn.

I often find myself
Retracing
Footprints
In the naked snow.

For a while,
I ponder of
The person before me
And the places
They must go.

Hesitantly at first,
It stutters before
Being forced open
By an impatient passenger;
The doors of a train.

While walking down a busy street
A light gust blows the soft rain
Beneath the guise of my umbrella,
Peppering my right cheek.