Life is no longer how it was before.

Since I know, I can never be free.

This loneliness I used to adore.

Without her, the light I'll never see.



All the stars are owned by you.

I lament not giving you the moon.

Wish I told you a thing or two.

seems we're not talking any soon.

I hope with everything within me;  
on the moon and shooting stars  
old stone wells and white horse waves  
that I am not forgotten  

I still come to the shore and  
wade into the waters,
feel the  current pull against my legs  
threatening to drag me out  
and abandon me in its expanse.  
I steel myself to the waves,  
to the unrelenting deep between us,  
and sing songs across the sea.
some for you
and some for me
and some, for us both,  
and I pray I am not forgotten  

there is a fear, a quiet anguish that  
looms in me like a shadow;  
that the sea has swallowed my voice,  
shipwrecked my song below the waves  
and I am made a stranger.  
an insignificant dot over your horizon.
like so many things
whose time has come
and gone.  

So I hope.
that life has not judged me too fairly,  
that somewhere I am happy,
hidden away inside you  
on a shore that I will never see
and I pray I am not forgotten

sometimes, it feels so strange. these waves of emotions,
they rearrange. droplets from my eyes fall and drown
everyone, big or small. so i close my eyes and take flight
into my room, away from sight, and let myself be swept
away in the corners where shadows play.

but sometimes, i leave a crack, a tiny gap for a little slack;
hoping someone hears the taps, and follows the sound of
my gentle raps. they'd bring a boat to where i stay; no need
to lift me from the fray. just let me hold on, and stay afloat.
above the waves, i'll gloat.

so if you hear the tippy taps, can you come with a boat,
perhaps?

Locked in my room
Letting the days go by without any care in the world
For I've lost everything I felt was important
Drifting into an abyss
There was only one more thing left to lose

I've wrote the notes over and over again
Hoping somehow I'd find the right words to express how I felt
But on paper, the words would disappear as soon as I wrote them
With a heavy heart, my tears washed the ink away until I could no longer hold the pen

I threw away the stacks of paper
And went on a walk to find my final resting place
On the edge of a building I sit and restless
With nothing but the photos in my phone to keep me company
The last image I'll carve into memory is that of the door you've left through without saying goodbye
I'm ready to see what lies beyond the door

For these weary eyes to see you again

I lay awake at night,
Pondering how paths diverged,
With the underlying question
Of what could have been

If only you had been there,
Guiding as a father should,
Perhaps then I wouldn't feel
Like a mere void in existence.

I cannot face my reflection,
Without questioning my essence,
Trying on masks, seeking one unbroken,
In the labyrinth of self-discovery.

It's all so vexing,
A lamentation of lost chances,
I resort to scars to uncover,
What remnants of you remain.

And the ache intensifies,
Knowing siblings exist, but unseen,
Do they yearn for connection,
Do they dream of knowing me?

Why must I be ensnared,
In this cycle of longing,
I endure the weight of ignorance,
Of a life left unexplored.

I wish these emotions could resonate,
And impart the depth of my sorrow,
You do not merit the title of father,
You are but a stranger I regret "knowing"

Haughty words
of wine and new lovers
frolic on your lips;
and fall on me with daggers and Greek fire.
To turn my insides to opposition
coiled with serpent knots,
staying my eyes from slumbering fantasies,
for it is retribution who hangs the stars on the night.

I fear you have cut deeper than I had permitted
when you set your steel against my ribs;
but let me not drink too heavily
from the cup of self-pity.

This was not undeserved,
earned with pleasantries and ingratitude;
but rather double edged words,
playing smoke and mirrors
to conceal my cowardly suspicions of defeat.

Finally, I have lost my appetite
for this ****** game.
My armor is worn and blood rusted,
exposing the wounds I have been rewarded
from years of waging war.

Perhaps there is still redemption
from the blood-stains on my sword.

i ****** handfuls of sand
and envisage i am an hourglass.
i enumerate the seconds in my head,
but my fingers leak more grains
than i can keep pace with,
far too fleeting to be unerring.
this nonsuccess only induces me
to think of time and its relativity;
of a man who complains that it’s only tuesday,
of a man who complains that it’s already tuesday.
i dub my left hand frank,
and my right jacob,
then wonder why it’s still monday.