She was short
Short haired
Short tempered
Short lived.

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.

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

I rarely get enough sleep.

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

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.

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

We are all capable
of blissful tenderness,
we are all
lovers
waiting for Spring,
to bloom with
the flowers.

Between the moment that passes
and the moment to come
I am stuck
in the immeasurable present.

The starfish
must throw out
its stomach
to digest
its food.

In this sense,
the starfish and I
are similar.

To learn,
I must
throw out my brain;
it is only through
foolishness
that I truly
begin to understand.
But how many lessons,
once learned,
can be used?

A woman and I sit alone
On a train destined for a seaside cliff.
She is dressed sharply:
a tailored business suit with a matching pencil skirt ending just below her knees,
her hair neatly tied back in a short ponytail
and a hard leather suitcase dangling from her left hand.
To her right, I sit in the seat next to her,
I have dressed accordingly as her counterpart:
a cleanly pressed tuxedo, a jet black tie lingering just above the belt line,
a pair of black leather dress shoes polished to a high shine,
with two envelopes, imprinted with our names, dangling from my right hand.
We look prim, we look stoic,
We look accepting of what is to come
as co-partners in misery.

Occasionally,
as she gazes at something distant,
she starts to tear up
and a portion of her makeup begins to smear at the corner of her eyes,
falling as small droplets of streaking black.
I try not to look
but I slowly affix my left hand on her right thigh
where her right hand comes to meet mine.
Her shoulders shudder
My heart starts to flutter,
We both feel dizzy;
Co-partners in misery.

Doesn’t it seem odd?
We could work so much in just a few years
and achieve completely nothing.
Debt is an odd thing,
to what extent was she willing,
to which extent was I willing,
not that it matters,
all we needed was a good heart in the wrong place
and a co-signed loan,
one for her,
one for me;
all for him.
Debt is an odd thing,
The living may never escape it,
But it shall never catch the dead.

With each passing train stop,
we both get a little bit antsier.
She looks more unsure of our decision,
I look more unsure of our decision,
but the train continues.
Her hands start to sweat,
my feet start to tap nervously,
she begins to bite her lower lip anxiously
I begin to heave a little harder
as the ocean comes into view.
We both tempt each other with worried eyes,
But our clasped hands act to remind
that we are just so very tired.
she may want to go back,
i may want to go back,
but the train continues.

Her eyes are wonderful,
as she stares at me,
they ask a simple question:
Is death forever?
I stare back,
Let’s find out together.

The train stops.

Our hearts drop.

Until next time, perhaps.

I find peace
In the early morning
While I wait for an empty train
On a platform
As the sun rises
Out of the winter haze.

DIGESTION
When the temperature is raised
Particles gain kinetic energy
And collide at a greater frequency.
The more particles that collide
The chances of a reaction occurring increases.
How many times have elbows rubbed
In hallways, no matter how crowded
Yet nothing happens,
Nothing precipitates,
Not even a cough
Or a wandering shot
From the corner of their eyes.
People pass
By or away
And yet hallways are still full;
Full of thoughts of other people
Full of longing
Full of the people who are missing.

USE OF ELECTROLYTE
The addition of an electrolyte
Reduces the coulombic repulsion
Produced by a solution’s ionic atmosphere;
An electrolyte allows ions to interact more freely.
A full bus is void of tension.
A stranger who writes letters everyday,
But crumples the paper before finishing
Is completed by the person
Who eagerly awaits a text on their phone.
A person with a bouquet of flowers
Catches the eye of someone lost in thought.
So many people who compliment one another,
Or an other,
Sit idly on a moving bus
Separated only by people
Who, too, are separated from their second piece.
You meet such people everyday
Who could have been,
Yet are not.

CO-PRECIPITATION
Something that is generally avoided.
An impurity that co-precipitates with the product
Can cause an overestimation of analyte.
Impurities can be caught within
The crystal lattice structure of the compound
Or trapped inside a growing crystal.
It may be hard to understand
Such thoughts still seem foreign
But I, too, have things that I remember dearly.
They are wrapped up with
Lists of groceries, and formulas
About distance and its relation to
Speed and its change over time.
It is all just things that have
Come to pass.
Such memories are hard to keep
When there is only one who articulates them,
But I am sure
Perhaps years from now
You’ll catch yourself thinking
For a split second
And then go about your day.

PEPTIZATION  
The breaking up of precipitate
Due the loss of electrolyte
Which strengthens the ionic atmosphere
Around the analyte.
In line at a bus stop
A glimpse is caught
Of the oncoming bus
And people shuffle
As the line moves up.
Never again
Can the same people
Line up the same way
For the same bus
We are too fragile
To construct ourselves in such a way
Where we can meet again.
Fate is too frail
Someone must leave
Leaves must fall
But someone always stays.

she would not look me in the eyes
as i pretend to be
the person whom she coveted;
the man she used to see

nor night or day, will I think less
of her as time goes on
yet he remains inside her head
from dusk to break of dawn

perhaps, i think, in solitude
she will move on from him,
but it is i that she neglects
and leaves upon a whim

one day he showed up at our door
much to her surprise
and outlined our last couple days
before our grand demise

who would have thought that she
would try to run away
and have the courage to **** me
on the exact same day?

alas, ‘tis not a fairy tale,
she would not get her way,
for the same day that I had died,
she, too, would pass away

our daughter whom shall wake alone
when the night is done
in shock will find the corpses of
her beloved ones

what will she think of this mess
when she looks down to see
the blood and her lifeless parents
engulfed in tragedy

you see, the man who had shown up
dropped by to say hello,
my wife, who still had loved this man,
did not want him to go.

so that same night, she called to me
and said she would leave soon,
to pursue the man who had left,
under the the naked moon.

i tried to talk her out of it,
But she would not listen,
and as we started to argue,
her tears would then glisten

in rage, she grabbed a nearby knife
and lunged at my bare neck
but in the process, fallen down
and missed me by a thread.

at this time, she had broke down
and would not stop crying
then turned the knife onto herself
and died where i was lying.

I took the knife, and turned it to
myself as i had sobbed
Would I let my wife go alone
To Hell? is what i thought

But is it not somewhat funny
Attempted homocide
Turned tragically into what was
A double suicide.

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?"

I confess,
I do not know if I will make it.
The road ahead is long.
My time here is short.

I have heard
that the end of each journey
is just the start of another.
I hold these words closely
as I walk into the encroaching night.

It was never my fear that, upon first seeing me,
She would deem me inadequate and reject me entirely right there and then.
It was the coming thunder,
When formalities are finished and our feelings are confirmed,
Where she thinks herself content with my company,
That shook me to my foundation with anxiety.
I cannot help but think,
That even in contentment,
A seed of doubt may find fertile soil in her heart,
And sprout a sudden longing,
A quiet panging,
Which reverberates through the days that grow longer and longer in length,
With each echo leaving a more and more profound impression.
And when this panging starts to get louder,
Until it is akin to church bells in her heart,
It will rouse her from her sleep-like state of contentment,
And have her find that something feels a bit off.
At first, she will not be able to put her finger on it,
But slowly she figures it out;
My images of her set in marble turn into plastic,
Lines of poetry begin to smudge as if written in cheap ink,
Letters begin to fox with its yellowing paper feeling dated to the touch.
And she suddenly realizes in the midst of others,
That this is not enough for happiness.
And then, by chance,
She misplaces a single glance,
Only to find something new
Something beyond contentment and I.
The skies begin to darken and grey storm clouds roll in,
And the thunder strikes,

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Perkodhuskurunbargg­ruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititill­ibumullunukkunun

This, I fear above all else.

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

The midnight air
Tastes as it did
Years ago
When I first arrived.
Now that I am leaving,
It feels as if
I had never been here at all.

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.

Lucid dreams
are my only bridge
to those an insurmountable
distance away.

There is no ship
that can breech
the barrier of time.
There is no ticket
destined for yesterday.

To those of my past,
if only I could impart
a fraction of
the tenderness
that swells from my heart.
I remember you all
with a special fondness,
one that can only be
forged by
lingering regret.

The moment in passing
and the
moment incoming,
smudges into the other.
Time blends effortlessly with itself;
hours melt into one another,
days are indistinguishable,
but the difference between
the past and present
is as evident
as a knife in the gut.

One must wonder
if pain
is the burden of memory,
that to preserve the past,
one must pay dearly at the present.

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

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.

To be read
In itself
Is a victory.

It is hard
To think critically
Of your own poetry.
It is difficult to improve
And upsetting, perhaps
When there is little success.

But, be calm
To have been seen
Is itself
A victory.

I wait
for spring;
the petals
on a fleeting breeze;
the scent of grass
made soft by the warm sun;
the hymn of life
started by the first birdsongs of the morning;
the faint hum
of beating wings
as a bee lands gently
on the pistil of a flower;
the lukewarm night
where the moon peers curiously
at the yellow-orange tinge of sunrise.

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

The subtle turn of neck
Exposed skin, collarbone shown
Shoulder, slender, hand, in air
Slight smile, red lips
Dimples that crunch the corner of cheeks
Crossed legs; hairless
Soft ankle, gentle foot
The arching bridge
Of the sole
Timid fingers, curled
Ready to point
Ready to pluck
Heartstrings.

Company; friends
Distance
It is unfair.

I think I would understand
If it were outwardly cruel
But such heartaches speak
In quiet undulations,
Hard to catch inclinations,
A half-moment,
A heartbeat,
A second too late to take back
The things you did not say
When they asked about
The weather or your new shoes.

The shoulder shrug
The empty bus
The hands held
At a distance
Amidst crowds
For anyone to see
It was enough to make you think
Why be so honest
How can someone be so brash
Without saying a word.

It comes suddenly
After it’s easy to realize
They never looked
They did not listen
Or even read
It did not occur because
Value is relative,
It does not matter,
People are busy
Although you may write.

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

To happiness and health
and future prospects
of wealth.

I have known
no loneliness
like that of
a Saturday night.

At dawn,
I comforted myself
by saying
there is still time.

At twilight,
I know
it had not been so.

To seek refuge
in the time that is left
is folly;
better to have done
than to have
thought of doing.

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

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

My thoughts
whirl about
like a sudden
gust.

You are
to me,
as the restless wind
is to the
petals of a flower;

fleeting,
out of reach,
ungraspable.

if men are divided
as either
sheep or wolves,
then i already know
what is to become of me.

when my time comes,
when the slaughter is nigh,
i will stick out my neck
and tell them,
do it properly.

i am too tired
to do otherwise.
i find it preferable
to end this farce;
life will go on,
with or without sheep;
with or without wolves.

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.

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.

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

Are her words,
not mine.

A flower
that blooms
before a drought,
will wilt
without having
lived.

To think of you,
is to have such
thoughts.

By writing love poems,
I have learned
that I only know how
to express
sadness,
not love.

i spend more time
thinking of writing poems
than writing poetry.

it strikes me as rather odd,
as most things require only
the act of doing it for it to be done.
paradoxically,
when one thinks about what should be written,
one can no longer grasp
what it is they had even intended to write.

and so i pick small details;
that is all i can do.
and i layer them, one atop another.
perhaps among my many poems
is the one single poem
i had meant to write.

It takes me
perhaps a few minutes,
at most,
to write a poem.

In the brief instant
between
creation and publication,
I am convinced
that this poem cannot be
improved.

But note,
it is never the claim,
that the poem is
any good.

I write
so that I may express
what I had genuinely felt
for a few moments.

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

I walk through the years
Looking yearningly
At the reflections
In windows I pass.