What kind of a man can
but a man that could, would not
and who should that man be?
but the man that lives in me

I engineer a situation to situate this simulation
in which I entertain my mind
and I find the stimulation that stimulates each situation is very kind
I don't mind if I am to be
a man that only I could be
and I can see
the man that I should be
is me.

Empathy and understanding
in the making of a man
is as crucial and demanding as the
man quite understanding
who can only understand
the type of man that he can see
and any man would want to be.

Anyway the man that is the man today
must learn that what he has to pay
is his fair dues
and losing sleep will not keep the man I am
from stumping up
I can
be the man I am
and if I am that man
then that man can be me.

Benedict watched Christine;
she was applying lipstick
to her lips, gazing at herself
in the bathroom mirror.

She mouthed her lips together
as he had seen his mother
do many times as a child
to spread the lipstick evenly.

That looks better, he said.
She eyed in him in the mirror.
Least I can do to make myself
liveable again. He smiled.

Her hair was brushed, not
messed up as was per norm.

Maybe you’ll be ready to get
out of the locked ward soon,
he said. She lowered her eyes.

Brushing hair and applying
lipstick doesn’t mean I can
forget that *******, she said.

Still have problems inside
my head. Maybe they’ll stop
the ECTs, he said, give you
pills or such. She pushed
the lipstick in her dressing
gown pocket, walked out
of the bathroom on naked feet.

He followed her to the window
of the lounge where other
patients sat or stood and
peered out at the snow.

I want to be out there,
feel that coldness, that air,
that biting chill, want to be
alive, want to feel, she said.

Benedict smelt the scent
of old soap, sensed her fingers
touching along his arm, her
breath made mist upon the glass.

They can stick their ECTs,
she muttered, they do nothing
for me except mess with my head.

He allowed her finger to run
down his skin, to move about
his wrist, smooth the scar where
a blade once ran, touch his
lips waiting again to be kissed.

Benedict knew
Miss Croft
was out of his league;
she was everything

he wasn’t: upper
middle class,
well spoken,
well dressed;

had a nice face,
nice ***. The mere
thought she’d have
anything to do with him

was a joke. But he
wouldn’t have minded
a poke; his pecker
would have obliged,

he thought. Nonetheless,
he knew reality when
it came, knew he was out
of the game, so became

content just to talk
and joke and laugh
and forgot all about
the poke, least for real,

in dreams a guy can
do whatever wants
or desires: create or
destroy worlds with fires,

make the perfect art,
sleep with whosoever,
become a saint;
dreams allow such things.

But reality holds in check;
but one does what one can,
he thought, and keeps what
reality brings. She was the

out of your league type;
he could have sworn she
had it tattooed on her ***,
highlighted on her passport.

He would have been just
a nice guy to her; have given
her what he could have afforded;
read better books, listened

to highbrow music, spoken
with a plum in his mouth
if it did the job, but he couldn’t
make the grade, didn’t have

the right tone in speaking.
He knew one couldn’t always
get what one wanted
or was ever seeking.

Really?*
The question
The catylist to a hurricane in her once calm seas
The hurricane grew
It hit her flawless shores
Caused her pure cities to flood
With doubt
Insecurity
Unsure of every compliment
She lost her faith in the goodness
She is past tense now
"Children this is what happens when..."

I learned.
I love.
I lost.
And through all the experiences.
I learn the most important things of love.
If you can't give a hundred percent to someone.
Your love is limited, by the things you say.

I hurt.
I lied.
I cried.
And the one that hurts the most was the lie.
Where truth will be discovered in time?
Why do we try to hide things?
Why do we?
When through carelessness we regret the trouble it brings.

I spoke.
I remained quiet.
And just listen.
While others told me the straight news

That love is made for fools.

We all feel that way.
Well, sometimes , we do.

Whether George loved Alice,
Benedict didn’t know,
but Alice loved George,
she let it show.

Benedict saw the way
she looked when George
came in the room
or if she spotted him
along the passage,
she’d flushed and gawk
at him like some spotty
schoolgirl (though she
must have been near 70
if a day) and pat down
her grey skirt or mauve
flowered dress and make
sure, without mirror, her
hair was not a mess.

Benedict watched George,
poor of sight and bent slight,
enter the dinning hall
and make straight
for his chair and table,
sit down and fiddle
with the cutlery,
gaze at his face
in the back of a spoon
(though God knows
what he saw with eyes
like his, except blur),
while across the way
Alice would stand,
and girl like, swoon.

Benedict saw Alice
once or twice, when
courage allowed,
stand behind George’s chair
and with fingers twiddle his hair.

George blushed at this,
looked straight ahead,
sensing Alice’s hands
about his neck
in soft embrace,
her lips near,
wanting to kiss,
touched his face.

Benedict guessed
she never ventured
to George’s room or bed,
least not for real,
but maybe in dreams
or in some loving corner
of her aging head.

Whether George
loved Alice,
Benedict couldn’t say,
but he hoped George did
in his own odd way.

I wish you could hear what I have to say
But the problem is I can't put my emotions into words
Until 10 minutes after the fight is over.
Maybe they'll come at the right time someday.

I wish you would listen to me instead of ignore my yelling
But the problem is you're so **** stubborn
And I have too much pride to swallow my words
Maybe you actually understand what I'm feeling, but there's no telling.

I wish you would walk up to me and take my anger
And push it out of my body as you engulf me in your arms
But you have so many reasons not to forgive me for this
Maybe one day soon you'll stop looking at me like I'm a stranger.

I wish you would speak to me instead of only talk
And then things would become more functional again
But your ideas do not match up with mine anymore
One day I'll realize this parting shouldn't have been such a shock.