they say a poet
cannot fall in love
with their own poems
forever,
but it’s no wonder, my love,
that my heart plays
on piano keys,
without white-filtered films,
with your voice only at the end,
I pretend to be a series
without you.

I am not your lover,
you are not mine,
yet what is it with us
that makes the ground tremble
in the absence of us,
in the shattered eclipse
of your brown eyes?

There is a subtle emptiness
Placing a shutter, blankest white
Before the dripping ink of night
Cupped in the brown they call my eyes.
The pounding of a silent voice
Upon the bottom of my mind.
A wordless tremble in my hands,
Some concrete in my smile.
Oh well, I murmured to the voice,
What matter if I don’t rejoice?
A passing whim, a selfish choice,
Then I’ll be fine tomorrow.

  The giants, oh! They raise their arms,
  Pulling the membrane off the moon,
  Unveiling core of blinding light,
  A blossom of sundews.
  My giant! Love! A chandelier,
  Glaring upon my feverish skull,
  Your smile of stone and eyes of ink,
  Thee is a subtle emptiness,
  My dear, you truly make me sick,
  Both arrogance and self-hatred,
  An inner eye that never blinks,
  That never looks outside yourself.

Voices keep me company, sometimes one, sometimes a crowd
O’er the mountains of withering roses
Comes black wine that slips down the wrists
Of which the shackles bind
They say to heal, they say to punish
But I just wish for one day of quiet

That feeling of being obligated.
Like a signal mom caring for a child that is not hers.

In the same way you came to me.
For whatever reason you adored me, like a child meeting their favorite superhero.

You admired my works like nobody else.

I admired the love you gave to me.
It was warm and unfamiliar.

So I stayed in bed a little longer.
The look that you gave me was passionate and ready…a burden on my back.

Something I could not repeat with my physicality.

I am a stranger to love and because of that I must vanish.

Leaving an oblivious note that you will read.

Hello ? hello ? hello ?
Anyone out there ? anyone out there ? there’s nobody out there.

This house doesn’t echo ‘cause it’s empty —
It echoes ‘cause I talk to the walls,
and they talk back
with everything my mother,
my father,
my brothers and sisters,
my friends,
and my lovers
never said.

You see, recently, I’ve been sleeping like I’m training for death,
my breathing’s been shallow,
my dreams have been hollow,
waking up just to forget
why I even went to bed… in the first place.

The silence claps, filling the room, — applause for my pain,
and I swear:
even my shadow’s been walking away.
My bed’s a grave I visit nightly,
only to wake up and
restitch my smile nice and tightly,
just so everyone can see
just how happy I can be.

The other day, I wrote a list of reasons to live —
ran out of ink after two.
Wrote “sunsets” and “maybe,”
then scratched 'em both through.
Every “I love you” I’ve heard
was a debt disguised,
a loan with interest
that never arrived.
For them, I know it was just empty breath:
no heart,
no soul,
no vow,
no truth.
Always less, and never more —
just echoes behind this closed door.
As they left me alone,
blindly deciding
it’d be okay for me to love myself
on my own.

They yelled out behind that door:
“James you’re not alone,”
“We’ll always be here for you!”
but no one ever knocked.
Only ghosts with names like Almost,
and clocks that tick and tock in Morse code
for stop.
Tick tick tick—
Tock.
And now even my watch
has begun to mock
the very bitterness…
that resides within these walls.

My chest’s a locked box
where light doesn’t get.
My thoughts?
Wet matches.
That can’t spark—
just create ash.
I choose not to water my plants
like I’m praying they die,
just so something else understands
what it feels like
to try
and try
and try
and still…
not be remembered.

I’ve screamed into the universe
like voicemail—
begging for anyone or anything
to give me the recognition I needed.
No return.
I lit myself on fire for warmth,
and watched
the cold not burn.
This ain’t poetry.
It’s my farewell in rehearsal,
a symphony of silence
in a one-man circle.

I don’t want to die.
I never wanted to,
and I never will.
But I can’t keep living like this—
half death,
half plea.
So when you hear this:
Don’t cry.
Don’t clap.
Just breathe.
Because that breath
represents more love
than I ever believed
was for me.

I only ever needed three things:
I. love. you.
You could have saved me.

I found my peace, but it was brief,  
I thought it would stay, bring relief.  
Day by day, night by night,  
I suffocate beneath this fright.  

I washed away what left me torn,  
Through my pain, I bore and mourned.  
I’m no player—I’m a victim,  
Yet it still hurts, for I have feelings.  

Through the pain, both flesh and mind,  
I endure, though I’m confined.  
I brush it off until it’s gone,  
Yet scars remain, etched upon.  

I kept it quiet, held it in,  
So no one saw the war within.  
Voices echo, sharp and cruel,  
Scheming shadows, mocking fools.  

I say, "Be silent!"—they only jeer,  
Where did they come from? Why are they here?  
Still, I fight, though I am trying,  
To wear a face that hides the dying.

My heart weeps in silent cries,
Yet knows not the reason why.
The mind’s a storm of perplexity,
Where love of Man is chained and bound.

The sky resounds with silver voices,
While earth lies scattered with broken hearts.

I wouldn’t call us friends
but we’re close, intimate even -
they’ve known me longer,
know me better than anyone.

They read me, clearly see
the full back-catalogue of me,
understand me, often better than me
and they know just how to wound me,
seam doubt in me, refusing a stitch of mercy.

Sometimes I think them merciless,
sometimes merely vindictively honest,
but I cannot deny their knowledge,
their perceptiveness.

Nevertheless, there are essentials
that their words do lack
- imagination
- hope
- kindness
and the one furthest from their grasp
- forgiveness.

And so, I pay greater heed
to the friend whose words brim with love,
whose knowledge of me is greater,
whose patience is longer, and who sees
who I am in Him
- forgiven.