Why do poets insist on dwelling on Love?
What a futile, tragic endeavor, indeed.
The only thing, however,
more futile and truly tragic
is to believe that we ever really had a choice
in the matter.
Poets cannot help but to root around the subtle
and revel in the profound.
And Love seems to be the most natural
and confounding sickness around.
Its the most fundamentally complex
ailment we've found to date.
So continue to unravel
my dear friends
and pinpoint and storm about.
Carry on with the exploration
of the rawness, the disappointment,
the unmatched excitement and roaring self-doubt.
Keep prodding and analyzing
and let me know if you discover a way
to cure oneself of unwanted, unrequited love
and live without.

Why does my soul feel hollow?
Why is it difficult to breathe?
Why is it bile that I swallow?
When it's only you I see

I want to fill my soul
With petals of pink and green
And have an aura of gold
Surrounding me, heaven-serene

But your eyes melt like wax
My warm and giving heart
My white flag stands at half-mast
You pull and tear me apart

I'm standing at a crossroads
If I stay, I'll wilt like a rose
Or, I can choose to run far away, down paths and unknown roads
And hope and pray that it all will end in lyrical, elegant prose

'Why keep a cow when I can buy,'
Said he, 'the milk I need,'
I wanted to spit in his eye
Of selfishness and greed;
But did not, for the reason he
Was stronger than I be.

I told him: ''Tis our human fate,
For better or for worse,
That man and maid should love and mate,
And little children nurse.
Of course, if you are less than man
You can't do what we can.

'So many loving maids would wed,
And wondrous mothers be.'
'I'll buy the love I want,' he said,
'No squally brats for me.'
. . . I hope the devil stoketh well
For him a special hell.

I want to walk on
runways but I can't
get past that spot
on my thighs
where they touch
and the crease in
my stomach keeps
me up at night
wondering if I
should have eaten
that should have
thrown it up
should have taken
another diet pill.
Probably not
probably
probably.

My father took me to the circus, once.
Pink candyfloss spun in a web of sugar cotton
and the acrobats whose contortions mystified my childlike eyes
Flames simmered and sparks flew,
like that little girl's smile when she learnt how to love.

She's older, now.
And her father doesn't take her to the circus
or the zoo
because she's too old for it.
And she thinks it's childish.

And really, she knows that time ticks,
no matter what,
but she is resilient,
her reflection warped by someone else's ideas.

She can't bring herself
to think of what she has left.