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?

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

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

I no longer love you,
but in recollection
I would still use
as many words as before.

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

I am tempted
to bear my heartache
as pure bitterness,
but
I know that there is
a blissful sweetness
that is
just as accessible.

How shall I carry
my memory of you?
Should your image
be framed in my
petty bitterness?

For you,
I know only
tenderness.
For you,
there is only love.

The moonlight splinters through the blinds
To show in darkness one can find
The place where one might ought to be,
Yet absent, unbelievably.
Regardless of whom she spends her nights,
The same moon which reveals he
Is the same one which had shadowed me,
Painting us in equal light;
Strangers of the lingering night.
Whether from the covers of a stuffy bed,
Or in winter cold instead,
It matters not, as you can see,
It is for him, not me or he.
And softly into the night we sink,
We three, with all the time to think
With who it is we want to be
Wasting time thus carelessly,
As he and I dream up the same,
And she thinks of a different name,
The night deepens, the moon shines forth
A missing person, a missing fourth.

And thus it ends,
Essentially,
We always look for someone else,
Across the street, behind a door,
Around the corner, on the next floor,
It matters not, I must admit,
No effort which one may submit
Can change the fact of where we are,
He and I, him and her
Separated by a comma in a poem,
Separated by a thought in someone’s head,
Clumped together in a warm cafe,
Lonely in each one’s own way.
I am certain, I am sure
He and I are equals in nothing
Except worthlessness.

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.

My ceiling is
an off white.

I do not dare
go back to sleep.

I am awake
and in the realm
where you are real.

I am ashamed
To look my mother in the eye
And show her nothing
For the years of her life
Spent on supporting
Someone such as I.

To see you,
as you see me,
is a difficult art.
To repress it all,
to paint over
all the vivid colours
you inspire in me
is a labour of love.

All I'd like
is to see you
as you see me.
But to hear your voice
is to fall for all the same spells;
of all things concerning you,
I am defenceless.

Will the passing years
dull the yearning
of a heavy heart?
Perhaps,
but how helpless
I feel,
how lonely.

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

I sometimes think of a girl who wished to die at sea
The sea, I see, which saw her drift away so lifelessly.
Not long ago we had been doomed to die a death in bed
But now the ocean waves careen above our heads instead
She stole my heart, I stole a car, and then just like that we’re gone
We escaped from the hospital, our days spent there were done.
She would not last without her meds and I was getting sick
So to the coast was where to go, and we had to get there quick.
Along the ride, she said to me, in the year two thousand five,
“Looking at all the scenery, it kind of makes you feel alive”
At the beach, we both looked on and made no qualms with death
For there are no prayers to be said if you are out of breath
She smiled at me and I at her, and then it was time to go
She swam out with a happy face, that is all I know

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.

awake,
i drift about.

the touch of moonlight
imbues all
with a haziness.

everything is dream-like.
it seems as though
to grasp for something
is to reach through it.
the world truly is ethereal,
what was seconds ago
may no longer be in a few moments.
do you know of those
who walked the same steps
that i now trace?

how loosely put together it all seemed.
looking back on it now,
to have been together
at the same place
was a chance of a lifetime.

i ponder,
how many more lives should i live
to meet them all again
in that same place.

i worry, the longer i live
the more of them i shall forget.
moments pressed out of memory
like the coming morning
erasing the night.

For a short while, I thought that she
Would stay here by my side
As she would wait for you to come,
Passing hours with a sigh

The summer we had thrown away
Was spent beside the fire
She’d hum a tune and play guitar,
Of singing, she’d never tire

I did not know her very well,
But she would like to talk
The only thing that captured her
Was when with you she walked
And sang and played out loud each night
She loved these simple things
She longed for you, she cared for you
She thought you’d see her through.

Just to be frank, I could not stand
The song Norwegian Wood
But nowadays, I cannot help
But hum it like she could

I often think of what she’d be
If you were with her then
And think of silly questions like
Then where, with who and when?

But to tell you the truth
I really ******* dislike thinking of you,
And by extension,
I really ******* dislike talking to you,
So let’s just stop.

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.

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.

It will be fine if I am here
It’s just a little jump
A sudden drop with naught to fear
That ends with a soft thump.

The ***** soles of our tired feet
Are pricked by broken glass
Our skin is burned by summer heat
And obstacles we pass

Our racing hearts will catch no rest
With night just on our heels
To make it we’ll have to do our best
Despite how hard it feels

How odd it is to run so far
So we could be right here
We run on foot, they chase by car,
But now, nothing to fear.

With one more step, we’ll be happy
The fall won’t hurt us much.
Upon a cliff, and by the sea
Wrapped in a loving clutch.

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.

Of all the things I e’er done,
The talks I miss the most,
Of which to night would not succumb,
Or morning force repose.

Of all the things I’ll e’er do,
I hope once more to say
The words which I had come to find
Were absent yesterday.

For all the things I wished I did,
I wish that I said less
As silence is much better heard
Than nonsense, I confess.

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

Tonight,
I must go.
I was almost sure I belonged,
But how many more years
Should I tell myself that?
Memories of those
Long happy nights,
Make me think
What use is it to reminisce
What I, alone, can remember?

Tomorrow,
I will go out
As if nothing is amiss.
I have done so before,
But half-heartedly.
I listened closely
To see if my absence was noticed,
I had found no murmurs
No stirrings,
Not even an insult
Or a condescending remark:
It was as if I had not left at all,
And with a bruised ego,
I found out that I never had a place here.
So I rushed back
I worked hard
I did my best
And yet
I am ready to leave again
And the taste of the midnight air
Is the still the same;
I will not be missed,
Nor shall my effort be remembered.

I will be back, someday
Maybe 10,
20 years from now.
Will you wait for me?
If I silently let my years pass
And let time
Harden my fingertips
And wrinkle my face
Will you all of a sudden
Remember the passion
With which I was embroiled?
When I return
Will you welcome me again?

It’s not as if I want to go.
I must.
Like most of everyone before me,
I had found what I loved
However,
We are much too fickle to love.
Where I lack in conviction
I am sure to make up with time lost
Wondering how it could have been.

If you had ever been left behind,
Or are trying your best to move forward,
I am sure you understand
How much I want to chase you.
If only I could be happy
In your pursuit.

I will always look for you,
You are the poems I’ve committed to heart,
You are the plays that I had practiced in my bedroom,
The speeches I memorized and picked apart,
You are the sonnets I’ve tried to write,
You are the long letters I’ve never finished,
You were my sole frustration for most of my life,
I was obsessed with you,
Yet I have nothing to show for it.

I will always look for you,
However, you cannot look for me.
I will not be anywhere
But here,
Far back
Looking onwards, from the past,
At the back of your neck as it smudges in the distance
With falling leaves
Rain
Petals that lost their way
In an August gust
And the horizon
That blurs
As the sun sets.

Goodbye, goodbye,
I love you, I love you,
Perhaps I shall see you sometime again
But not now
And not ever with me.

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.

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

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

I love this book.
Journey to the End of the Night
by Louis Ferdinand Celine.
I will never reread it.
It was enough to read once.
I have tried rereading it.
I could not.
It is too tiresome.
I feel this way about so many people.
I think fondly of them,
But will not miss them,
Perhaps they think of me sometimes
And maybe remember me somewhat favourably,
But they will not miss me.
Oddly, I find this comforting,
Perhaps it’d be better if we forget each other,
So somewhere we can meet for the first time again.
I long to read Journey to the End of the Night for the first time again.

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

I was fine
with waiting;
the breeze
of melancholy
carries with it
the distant smell
of blossoming flowers.

If waiting means
I can spend my time
imagining those flowers,
whose nectar,
whose petals,
entrance me with such splendour,
then I do not mind waiting.

At times, I envy
those who chose
to pluck from the ground
the flowers they had cherished.
But I...
Alas.

How I long for
a past
I did not have.

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.

If a poem
cannot be read
by for whom it's for,
then the heart asks,
what is it for.

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

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.

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

i have written
hundreds of poems.
in reading them over,
i find that
i have written
only a little bit of
poetry.

the passing of time,
the seasons,
of scenery
and people,
have scarred me;
embittered me.
i am now a more rigid person.

i dismiss my older writing as
pretentious;
uninspired;
misguided.
i wonder if
i should suffer the same verdict
when i,
once more,
re-evaluate.

in light of such a thought,
i marvel at
how little poetry
can be squeezed from a single life.

These passing moments
strike me as
most beautiful,
for even I can tell
that the present
will blossom
into an evocative,
eternal bitterness.

I cherish this
fruitless heartache
with renewed ardor,
as it is the only proof
I had ever loved.

Even if I am a disgrace
I have aspired to be more.
If I never amounted to anything,
It is not my parent’s fault,
If my life turns out meaningless,
It is only because I am frail,
I was never unlucky,
There has always been someone helping me,
I am responsible for my own unhappiness.

The drizzling rain
Is of little comfort
But the soft pats against my window
Feel somewhat encouraging.
However,
The blanket of grey clouds,
Extending into the horizon,
Give off a sense of endlessness,
Such that the hopeless torrent
Of past mistakes
Will be forever present.
My life would be easy
If I could throw myself to the ground
And beg for forgiveness.
Perhaps someone should have been born instead of me,
But I cannot bring myself to say
That I am better off dead.

If I can live honestly from now on,
Even if I never amount to much,
I will have a live worth living.

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

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

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

Rain pooled into a puddle
On the sidewalk as I pass
Reflects at me a distortion of
All the things
I should have been.

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?

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.

Let them be
as petals of a flower
scattered by the breeze.

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.

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

If not,
I will settle
for
tenderness.

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