Effortless,
boundless,
listless
in this.

O if I could only write
Poetry worthy of your
Reading!
Find clarity in
Complexities.
Make Art and rhyme
of the unspoken.
Offer up my words
As tokens of my
Vulnerability.
Then, then you would see.

If only I could write a book
worth reading past the first few pages.
Not the type for school that
you read in stages in order to maintain
your vitality.
A book you can drown yourself in
without glancing at a screen.
Words you can devour
rather than glean.
An idyllic scene.
Far from the person you know best.

If only I could write myself
in a play.
My life mapped out from day to day
with instructions on my whereabouts
and actions.
Our conversations would be succint, artful
and with purpose.
I would have long, coherently structured
speeches and
always have the right things to say,
expressed in the wittiest way.
My life would be dictated by
Your entrances and exits.
All my plot lines resolved in
Act 3;
That would suit me.

O if only I could write those words;
The ones worth saying.
Those words different from our
Daily utterances.
Those words you have been
meaning to say but have not
yet had time to shape them round
your lips.
If I could write those words, I would.
Unfortunately it's just me.
But I will try, I promise.
Just you see-

T'is unfair for those
Who have never felt morose or
Uncomposed
To blame or shame the lives
that have been.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

For a few choose to leave this earth,
But most of us are dead from birth.
For either way it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

We should salute those who do it,
For they have gone through with it.
Us here waiting, waiting.
Waiting still, waiting to get ill.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

If I were to make that choice,
Do not proclaim what I could have been,
Or that you never could have seen
The pain.
'Cause you could, and you did.
For it's anyone's choice,
Leave them be.
I wonder would you be the same
If it were me?

A certain momentary sadness; the self-inflicted kind.

Usually kept by the owner to give their negative attitude someone to play with.

Something which would easily pass if you just made an effort, and socialised a bit more.

Anything is possible, if you put your mind to it.

It's only you and your attitude.

Je vais à la fête
pour boire.
Mais, vous savez
que c'est ma
bête noire.

Your silence is a kind of
Grief,
From words that were left
Unsaid.
But when swept in a drunken
Heat,
The words of then are bled.
××××××××××××××××××××××××××
I know you more;
Yet, still I don't.
There's more for me to see
But keep your mouth and desires
Shut;
Do not be familiar to me.

Our love is like
An exaggerated metaphor-
Good, but I can't take it anymore.

I love you,
You don't love me too.
You love me,
I am free.
(Rhyming scheme AA, BB)

Time to rehash that metaphor,
now that you are sleeping on my floor;
Each day I love you more and more.

Please stop writing things like this?
You terrible bore.

Idle talk
and groping glances
are thrown and strewn
at the idle dances.

Your sickeningly sweet smile
given refuge in the eye of the storm;
abetted by the valour of your current tipple.

Hand on hand,
eye on eye
then quickly turn to pass on by.

The constant ebb and flow of your
in-out,
here-gone,
love-doubt,
ignore-fawn,
contradictory chaos is enough to drive the
dead to drink.

I drown the dead within me
with the dregs of the Host.
Living tonight to the
detriment of tomorrow.

Go on, do it.
Do the deed.
Spread your seed.

The children tell stories of when you bleed.

Mon cherie, c'est l'appel du vide.

Je suis comme
le bruit de la
pluie
sur ta vie.

What did I do
To end up
Liking you?

I have been thinking a lot,
And one starts to wonder
if it's all in my head
Or it's all torn asunder.

It's a wonder that those
who are so well fed
and so well read
are so full of dread.

I gather friends like I do books-
Some for their beautiful composition
And Artistry,
Some for common philosophy,
Some for intellectual or
Artistic stimulation,
And others for the warmth of nostalgia they bring.

The rest,
I plan to donate to the charity shop.

Let us listen to love songs
And pretend they are about us.
Let us have nothing to do
And not make a fuss.

Let us confuse each other
With an advance and retreat,
And at the end of the night
Let us not be complete.

Let us talk lovingly,
One on one.
Let us not in large groups,
As I am no fun.

Let us never know
How the other one feels;
But perhaps one day,
Over wine and take-away meals.

Wrap your ring of
words round;
Cushion the fall.
It shouldn't make much difference,
as your words mean
Nothing at all.

I could be sorry that
because of me
you can't enjoy the sun,
but I am sorry that
you never knew me
when I was fun.

It is only
when one
is sick and
devoid of it
does one
realise that
all the world's
a love song
And the people
star-crossed lovers.

You've always meant more to
I,
Than I to
you.
And that's what's led us
Askew.

Your disinterest is key,
for when my brain bleeds blue.
My mood is ****,
and so are you.