You were a strong man,
the strongest I ever knew,
forged from the steel of our city,
blood like oil off the iron tracks.

When I came home with C’s,
you looked me in the eyes and
said I could do more,
but that you loved me anyways,
and no mark would ever change that.

The games of cards and dominoes,
interrupted by grandma in the kitchen,
Mangia! Mangia!
I only beat you once.

You were no angel,
you had your vices too,
like the day you hit Nona,
and she threw the coffee on you.

Like the nights at the casino,
and days spent at the track,
but after I was born,
you entered combat.

I know you lied to me when
you said that you never
went back.
I hope you know
I would never hate you for that.

I’ll never forget the day
I heard, They told me to be strong.
God knows I was trying,
but you looked at me only for a moment

before we both started crying.
I knew right then and there,
you were really dying.
I hoped that they were lying.

Your physical therapist took me aside,
he told me you tried harder
when I was in the room,
so from that day I knew
what I really meant to you.

But stare at you mournfully
was all I could do. It was all I could do.
I’m sorry, Nono.
I’ll always miss you.

You were gone before I had time,
to show you that I could do,
what you always said I could,
what no one else ever knew.

The picture on my bedside,
will stay there forever.
I prayed every day that
you would get better.
I was just a kid. A wish can’t
change the weather.

You were gone long before
they buried you. Your spirit
wasn’t wild, you didn’t
laugh like you used to.

I lost you, but the man
with the chain still
sat in your chair.
I tried and tried to find you but
it was clear you were not there.

He told me the same joke
every time I said hello,
the same one you told me
many years ago.

I knew he was not you,
because you knew that I
already know.
It’s time to let you sleep,
Nono.

I never wanted to lose you.
I never wanted to be alone.

What do they call you when
You're not a lover
or a fighter?
What do they call you when
You chain smoke
On the balcony
And do nothing
But exist?

Not a lover or a fighter
No passion anymore
Just cigarettes and
Wine and books
And an empty bed.

I take all the bottles off
My nightstand.
6
One for forgotten lovers
Two for the eternal crack in the mirror
And three more because
I don't know when to stop.

Grey in a sea of vibrant blues,
Grey in a world of beautiful hues

so I sit here again and
tell these woes to
my pen because

No one cares about the one
Who chain smokes
On the balcony
And does nothing
But exist.

a doer of nothing,
a bucket of sorrow,
I've abandoned today
and discarded tomorrow

it's a desolate day,
a melancholias month,
i finally decided that
I've had quite enough.

Welcome, Sorrow,
my old friend.
They said it’d get better,
but they never told me when.

All the nights that I’ve spent
dreaming of the day
that I awake in the morning
to the absence of pain

But much like the spring
in the dead of December;
it’s something I imagine,
yet cannot remember.

one day as we
were on the couch
intertwined, like lovers
he told me that
he didn't like bukowski
because he
was
weird

I said
yeah
I understand
he's a strange
one

my eyes fell
silent
but my mind
flashed back to all
the nights I spent
with a lit cigarette
in my mouth
and Post Office
in my hand

I remembered all
the times I ran
with tears streaming down
my chest
to the books beside
my bed
and wept into
the words of the ones
like me

I thought of
all the moments
I thought I
couldn't do it
anymore
and I crawled
with bruises on my back
and bandaged
my heart
with the words of
the ones
like
me

I guess I will never
know the touch
of love
of holding hands
on the street
and a nice house
in the neighborhood
with curtains
that match
the
pillows

I was meant
for rooftops
and sinners
and poems of
heartbreak
and loathing in
Las Vegas

so I left the couch
and stumbled
home
so I could
climb into bed
and read the stories
of all the bukowskis
and the thompsons
and the plaths
and the faulkners
and all the
weird
crazy
tortured
wild
sad
violent
reckless
true
passionate
ones

the
ones
like
me

alone,
alone,
always alone,
this emptiness, it knows me;
"hey, welcome home!"

the doormat is missing,
the windows are cracked,
the sadness, it knows me;
"glad you have to back!"

the bedroom is empty,
but for a pillow and a cot,
these sorrows, they know me;
"we've missed you a lot!"

all the paintings are crooked,
the house is a mess,
it's a hell hole, no doubt,
but it's what I know best.

I don't write love poems anymore;
I sleep until noon and eat *** cakes for breakfast

I don't sing love songs anymore;
I cut off all my hair and dyed it a color he told me never to do

I don't read love stories anymore;
I pierced my nose and ate mushrooms underneith the stars

I don't write love notes anymore;
I read my books at diners in the middle of the night and paint just because I can

I live with tenacity and I haven't had a regret since I left


I'm glad I don't write love poems anymore