I don't know my place,
Where do I belong?
Just where is my space?
What takes it so long?

I feel like a piece not meant to be used,
A piece of a puzzle just so **** confused,
A piece of a puzzle that could never fit,
Or just like a fire that's never been lit,

I'm like a shard from different collection,
I'm just a someone who longs for connection,
What will it take to find my puzzle set?
What are the conditions that had not been met?

I wish there was someone to show me the way,
When will they show? I'm thinking all day,
Am I just a piece that one could just spare?
Why do they avoid me, do you think it's fair?

So am I unworthy of getting to know?
Is it just something that you cannot show?
Is it so much to ask to be known?
Just what do I need to not be alone?

I wish you'd just ask, if I want to go too,
Is that a hard task? Is that really true?
Sadly I think not, I think you're just blind,
You just don't want me to be what you find.

Grey trousers with holes but few compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other, with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining on the fiery skylight.

it looks
he took the rights
never thinking
the same turns
make a spiral

The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; that head's imagination or its deep void can’t be less terrifying.

the pale eyes
were toneless
—one might take
them for blind—
but underneath flesh
and inside the hollow heart
sits a little blue guy
whose chirps
aren’t recognised

The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.

still ******* air
and as alive as any other

In this damp pen.

Where the children had left.

A sound. Flapping. where the pigeons go to rest.

The husk of the moon looming, like of bird of her nest.

The sun. Drained of her light, preparing for the plight soon to come.

For this moment. When she dies. And cannot fly. She glides down with grace.

Like a bird, of light. Flapping away from. Sorrow. Is the night.

She gives— a breath, of soft and quite.
As the moon engulfs her flame.

A shadow of you is left to gloom. The hollow sky.

The earth has wept, and this bench had two.

The warmth that she couldn't concive.
Was taken from you—
A given. A fruit.

Please hold me. For without you I could cry.
Tilting my head to the sky.

In disbelief.

The sky, empty. Nothing but nothing.

For you and me.

Could be given between me and me.

For outside this pen.
Is an illusion. Nothing but a view.

And pigeons too. Flapping.

I can tell
from the smile draped across
your cheekbones
and your boisterous thought
pinned like a malicious lapel
three odd words—
“bursting with life.”

Painting the corpse on display,
crammed inside a casket,
dressed in birthday suit.

Am I aching?
Am I in distress?
Do you need words
to tell you of these things?
While you hold a living funeral
for such feelings.

In between us,
a wall,
Before: you said you wanted connection, as you laid one brick after another.
Maybe if you went over you’d see
the emptiness you banished me to.

You,
cold as an ethereal summer,
sifting through gaps of a cracked heart
after being battered by promises offered.

Well excuse me,
if I can't get over the hurt
You do not have to be grateful.
You do not have to see beyond yourself.
You can continue, as you have,
to orbit your own sun.

No, I refuse you
patting tears I cannot cry.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, my heart, once offered
like an open palm full of seeds,
learns to close, to protect itself from
your drought and wildfire.
You are not the IRS,
neither an accountant,
nor a broker, but a breaker you are
love is not a transaction,
not a ledger to be balanced.

I should have flown with my flock
against the gale of your indifference,
but such curse is youth,
when naiveté is in abundance.

Perhaps the wilderness out there has something safer to offer,
something tamed,
and,
somewhere, the dogwood blossoms
like heaps of uncaring December, covering the ground
in a blanket of white petals.
I want to lie down there,
to press my ear to the earth
and listen to the roots growing,
to the slow, steady drumbeat
of my thumping heart or whatever
is left of it.

I don't need your approval to bloom
so watch me unfurl next season,
my leaves reaching for a kinder light,
my roots deepening into richer soil.

I wish my silence were words for you to read.

Turrets and towers and a fortified keep
all protected by barbicans of stone
encircle a heart that solitary beats
besieged by being alone.

The curtain wall rises terribly high
behind a dark, wide, and deep moat.
Behind both hides a soul with a sigh
draped in a man-at-arms’ coat.

The banners are torn and raggedly hang
far above the desolate ward,
while the heart hopes for a cannonade’s bang
to free itself with a stroke of a sword.

And there approaches on the sunlit plain
a fellow heart with siege engines in train.