Mother, I write this to you after the end of the war.
Japan surrendered and now I wear a cast.
The skies are still grey.
No bombs being dropped
The government has told us to wait
I think they might have forgotten that we fought.
Now I see silence at the ship's mast.
life has been going way too fast.
I have very little hearing left
But I still miss the times when you used to scream at me.
Sometimes,I gamble
and yes mother, I still mumble.
I often feel cheated
but in front of the strippers
I am defeated
I have been trying to heal my wounds
I hope I find real love soon
Mama, is this all too much to ask?
All I need is a little love
To forget my past.
I have fought on many fronts.
I have seen soil mixed with blood.
I have seen flowers wilt.
Seen myself hanging from a hinge.

I have aged
not gracefully
I think I have children
who think of me as futility.
I have made mistakes
and decisions in vain
got their fruit
been in pain

I need somebody to love
a place to call home.
In my soul, I have less life and more holes.
I want someone to be there when days are dreadful.
Someone who is internally beautiful.
I sound like just another lonely man
It's been hard writing this letter without slang.
Mama, is this all too much to ask?
All I want is a little love to forget my past.

Mother,  I am in my death bed
yes you read that right.
A nice nurse has been helping me write.
I ran away, Mama.
Yes I did.
Your darling son
who never flinched.
I tried to find an escape, Mama.
but failed
Went on a search for God and Allah
but lost myself half way.
They say I am too weak
Displaced bones
and days to live three.
No sign of hope.
My eyes are sensitive
the stars burn them
the sun turns them to ashes
Doctor says my eyeball has been flattened.

Mama? Are you still alive?
your son just came back from a fight.

He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.

It was not in the road
that took me there
but the way my heart
always remained the same
rushing through college corridors,
open dissection tables,
woodwork poetry breathren.

Indestructible construction
of these cerebral plates
left me the mind of a surgeon
and the heart of a poet.

In the cold operating room
they cut open his chest-
blood gushing out and I could
see why sometimes a little hurt
could cause a lot of noise.
Ventricle, atrium.
A nick that ricocheted,
a word that spelled
goodbye.

There was a rhythm in his heart
and for once I could feel
synchronicity was never so beautiful;
almost teary-eyed
I could find those verses
lost between the veins,
quietude pumping out slowly.

Lost in the mistranslation
of his chest
till the nurse said

"Doctor, your patient's dying"

can you ***** my finger and measure the dopamine in my veins? collect my teardrops and tell me if i'm going to be okay? can you light up the darkness with magical pills?
decide if i'm too sad to go to school?
can you tell me if i'm just being melodramatic? measure my blood pressure, maybe that will work. write me a prescription for 5 Happy Days in a row, and 3 hugs from Someone I Love.

doctor, doctor
i'm not feeling well today
doctor, doctor
i don't know if i should stay

sadness isn't a sickness, but it's infected my mind. can you write me some antibiotics to get them out in time?

sadness isn't sickness, but i think i might've caught something from doing a little too much of Having No Friends. don't you know how much i've been Laying In Bed?
sadness isn't sickness, but i think i'm coming down

doctor, doctor
i've got a severe case of the I Don't Want To Lives
can you write me a prescription?
make it go away?

doctor, doctor
you've let me down this time
doctor, doctor
i'm not in my prime

can you tell that i'm not healthy?
'cause i don't think you can
oh, sadness isn't sickness,
but it's fatal,
if all goes according to plan

i went to a witch doctor who uses natural ways of healing
and by witch doctor i mean chiropractor, but the term sounds better for the situation i am about to describe
he asked me questions while i held out my arm
and if my arm fell easily to my side by the pressure he was applying, it meant no
so he asked if i had a heart wall
and my arm fell easily, like the way i fell for you
telling him no
(it was something i already knew but had hoped i suffered from because wouldn't it make life simpler to blame my infirmities on something so emotional and beautiful and dysfunctional we would have constructed together)
he told me my body had nested emotions in other places so as to keep my heart open and vulnerable
one of the places was my left arm
and i didn't realize until tonight that when we first held hands
and your heart was racing so fast i could feel it in my palm
it was my left hand
and
well
that is significant

Drain out of me
running through the page
a cloudy yellow apathy
with crimson streaks of rage
my doctor thinks a catheter
could help me hold my tongue
but I've swallowed his for years now
and my flow has just begun.