"onlys" poems
what my forays into online dating offered me that wasn’t s*x; european coffee beans, a film camera from the 70s, a workshop on ceramics, chicken parmagiana, bottles of blueberry lemonade, thai food that isn’t spicy, help with calculus homework, notes on gen chem, all the Star Wars movies, a book about magic: the gathering, a ride to an nba game, museum visits, nature walks, impulsive road trips, stories about their exes, silly anecdotes, photos of their pets, quality memes, awkward hugs that felt good.
such small intimacies, never blossoming into something bigger yet still imbued with meaning..
filled with what-ifs, if-onlys, and almosts.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
Sometimes there is no rhyme … no reason
We skip, break into dance.
The light is fantastic.
Our trippy smile complacent
Circumspect is the altered state,
of a world as it mutters its beat with the always of our heartfelt song.
We run our fingers under the hot tap,
numb gathers, swelling in ****** ripples infinite.
And still there is only a sensation of love.
Hindsight is the cold light of day we splash on our if onlys.
We lift yesterdays garb over our head and closet it as a memory.
The sun shines mourn as sad roams in displace.
And while we link hands with a share of spirit; renew,
everything falls unbelievably into place.
Yet we know deep down, where we truly live.
Sometimes there is no reason …no rhyme.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 5:15 PM UTC
Myself loved to play hide-and-seek.
That game went on for six years
I almost started to believe
that I lived in it.
My happiness used to hide in any place –
behind my smile most of all,
so that nobody could find my sadness
underneath it.
I’ve always had this weird cough
since I was fourteen.
I sometimes thought that
maybe,
somehow,
it was my own sadness trying
to find its way out of my mouth,
just to suicide itself on the pavement.
Tired of being in the dark
but too scared of the light.
The first time I said out loud
I was gay,
I cried so hard.
I used to think I was
ill,
dysfunctional,
twisted.
But once my father asked me:
«Who can tell what normality is?».
Today I am twenty years old and
I’m who I have always supposed to be.
Myself has grown up
it doesn’t play hide-and-seek anymore.
I am finally able to say
that the true meaning of “Pride”
is to not be ashamed
of who you are.
It’s to be thankful
for you you are
with no ifs or buts or if onlys.
It’s to look in the mirror
and see not a burden,
neither a failure.
Instead a heart and a soul
from which you find strength and love.
I have spent so many years
committing hate crimes against myself.
Now I’m working so hard
on loving me and
it’s not ******* easy.
But here I am
out of the closet
enjoying the light
I’ve been missing.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC
these feet, a rambler's. wanderlust
soles tied from genetics of the epi-
kind. his feet did ramble so as these
now do. his difference, he trek'd with
steel shunt in arm. he trek'd slums'
floors. grit-ingrain'd skin, pox'd wh-
olly and now pushing onlys. pushing
ash against the walls of Death's
container. body aged thru time,
more than doubled - more like
end'd - by that refined infusion.
these feet, a rambler's. walking forth
existences' hundred-mile wilderness.
his feet had also, and his feet defer'd
before sixty-six. these continuing
onward searching ancient trails. loo-
king to start another day, looking
for to never quit seeking another
day before the unlit walls of Death.
before the darkness consuming
of depths never known, always near.
these feet, a rambler's. of well-worn
leather. relinquish'd of cares, desire
or ambitions by brambles strangling.
blood running by access of natural
means. slate gash'd soles, crevices
open'd of the crust throwing chal-
lenges toward the sky. heights im-
aginable if only to forsake lazed
calves. heights set for disappearing,
where tracks never lead. no wrong
side in non-existence, no wrong
sight for the rambling feet worn lea-
ther.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
it's lonely at the top
i see it in my mind
i take it it's the same for you
so i won't waste your time
take me to the top
then take me down a step
your ones and onlys come and go
i'll make you half a trap
i want to be your 'something'
possession or a guest
you'll sometimes have your ones
i'll be your second best
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
*If only your mother would have loved you right,
maybe then you would know how to love a women.
If only your father would have stuck around,
maybe then you would know how to be a man.*
**Ifs and onlys all akimbo
leaves me confused, my heart in limbo
what is what and who is whoodoo
love is love, not gris gris voodoo**
*But I wouldn't expect
for you to know that when,
you don't even know your own worth
If only you knew that you aren't worthless*
**Can't make excuses for my mama
she carried on without a comma
but i never knew my dad
the best father I never had**
*Maybe if you knew your father then,
you would be more forgiving, more loving
If only you knew how much you meant
to your mother, your father, this world*
**If I truly meant something
perhaps it would mean less suffering
my momma loves me, that I know
but my dad got drunk..and just said no**
*If you only knew....
But I guess that you don't.*
**Maybe I never, ever will
but I let my heart, find love..still
if there's some way I can treat you better
teach me how....show me, to the letter**
*I wished that you loved yourself
then, maybe you would know how to love*
**I can only pray you'll show me,
take the time to get to know me**
*I can't show you.
You'll have to figure it out
I can't show you how to love yourself
Only you can*
**I am a work in progress
merely a work in progress**
*I can't help you if you
won't let me in or forgive me*
**Here is my invitation
my forgiveness
my welcome mat
please......enter this wounded heart**
*If only you knew...
that I was wounded too*
**I can heal your wounds
wipe away your tears
just let me inside,
your heart is where I long to live**
*If you look on the inside then, you might find
a scared, insecure and lifeless girl.
The girl I've spent most of my life trying to hide.*
**Oh, but you are so full of life
the kind of girl who could be my world
no need to fear life any longer
grab onto my heart and we'll both grow stronger
no more hiding...who is beautiful
it's you, it's me...so beautiful
and as for insecurity
i'll believe in you & you believe in me**
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
Stuck wanting something more,
Stuck knowing I can do better,
Stuck living and feeling all alone,
Stuck to my depression like glue.
Stuck to my "what ifs" and "if onlys",
Stuck to thinking about the past,
Stuck feeling like less than a man,
Stuck feeling my heart be broken again.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
She draws Crayola green meadows
in which she frolics and laughs
snuggling up to her
imaginary daddy whom she colors
in unstraight multi-hued stripes
accessorized by a large
unselfish heart in brick red
proudly erupting from his chest.
Her sepia brown-blob puppy is
rediculously happy,
just like her
holding the perfect father
she has always dreamed he is.
Together they stare at
blue construction paper skies
and cotton ball clouds
discovering sailing ships,
famous people heads,
and all the animals they will see
on the day he comes
to take her to the zoo.
~
He labors intently within the lines
coloring subdivided spaces
in one direction just the way
he would teach her
if she were here.
Pressing into the bold
outline on a tiger tail
he hears her giggle in his thoughts.
He closes the book
each page fully given life
placing it on the teetering pile of
earlier masterpieces
filed beside his desk
where he and his daughter stored
the art they created
on regular dates they never had.
He rises on the ritual of completion
toward his omnipresent closet
full of stacked and redundant "if onlys",
each one shaped as
a 64-count box
purchased and purchased again
with every book
he intended to share
on their next wax pencil excursion.
On his toes,
one more "if only" goes to the top.
He still colors.
She still dreams.
~
An Orange/Red sun drew itself
out of the bleacher tiered palate
and hung high betwixt
her cottonball clouds
29 years from the start.
Daddy holds his daughter in deep embrace
while a secret artiste' paints
a tiny translucent drop
on her quivering cheek.
The diligence of construction-paper prayers
are answered in the evidence that
there is no crayon for clear...
it is a tear,
and we are really here.
(I love you my precious girl, with every color in the box :-))
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Forlorn and hating life
The swine that feels the sudden strife
Has come and gone on tomorrows wings
Has fled this place of hopes and dreams
A time thus robbed and cant obtain
A simple freedom to sustain
When this life has payed its final debt
The reaper comes to collect
An eternity goes by before we notice what is gone
And then we see what we couldnt see
What was there just yesterday is gone for good
A life wasted trying to get back what we never had
A single tear a cascade of weeping uncontrolled
All the past comes rushing back
The memories so hard forgotten a flood of wasted time
Wasted again in this emptiness nothing to cling to
Fear of losing the only grip obtained through constant struggle gained
Fear of dying alone without ever saying goodbye
Fear of fear and all that is misunderstood
Fear of living in this cold lonesome dingy place
A ragged man pulls himself out of bed
Only to face another day of being alone
Only to be rejected again by those who once knew him
Only to suffer another cold night without comfort
A ragged man tries to find another meal
Only to spit on and beet down and made to go away
Only to try and stave off the pain in his emty stomach
Only to find a meager half eaten burger
A vet who risked his own life
So we could have the things hes trying to get
So we could complain if we dont like it
So we can try and change what doesnt work
Not too be spat on and made to go away
I didnt ask him to do what he did
I never knew him so what difference does it make
Im not the one who spit on him
It wasnt me who beet him down
All those it wasnt me's and I didnt do it
That has all been said before
but how many times have you passed a man on the street holding a sine that reads: HOMELESS DISABLED VET
PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS
and just passed him by without a second glance or thought of him.
You may as well have spit on him or beet him down or told him to go away.
All the what ifs and if onlys he's already asked himself
So this ragged tired man gets wasted again.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:14 AM UTC
If Only
A thousand words I wish to say
But only silence is heard
Feelings to share, a message convey
But I don't say a word
A ton of things I would do
To show how much I care
So much I would give to you
If...I really dared
All the thoughts I think of you
Deeply held within
Concealed completely without a clue
It'll look, as it's always been
If only I could but show
How you make me feel
If you would only know
What I can't reveal
If only you knew the ache I felt
The day you shut me out
The pain and sadness that I dealt
When we walk the parting route
If only you knew the memories it brought
When I saw something you'd like
Everything about you I never forgot
Hidden in my heart so tight
A thousand word "If Onlys" fill my mind
Wishing you felt this way too
A thousand words I would find
To say "If only you knew."
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Something once so sweet,
has turned oh so sour.
Past confidences and trust,
now used to exploit and gain power.
Using each other to survive.
Although each one is abused,
neither can die.
Each month becomes tougher,
for one to thrive the other must suffer.
He is now weak and he is lonely.
False memories of happiness
induce feelings of regret.
He now lacks purpose,
he now lacks sense.
She recognizes his agony and remembers the pain.
She provides minimal attention to barely keep him sane.
No room in a heart that has used up all its tears.
Conditioned to resist through past abandonment and fear.
He takes what she gives him,
although lacking satisfaction.
If only he could break down her walls, and once again, find true attraction.
Embarrassed and discouraged,
passion twists to resentment.
As the anger harbors,
he becomes independent.
He breaks away,
in need of a more gracious host.
She was almost ready,
she was so close.
In panic,
she cracks,
Her barriers fall apart.
What if that was the last chance she had to reopen her heart.
She is weak, she is lonely.
Unrealistic dreams twist her previous intents.
She loses all purpose.
She loses all sense.
Power hungry he basks,
in his temporary independence.
While she yearns,
she begs,
for more sufficient attention.
Her hopes diminish.
Despair exchanged for rage.
As her dependency falters,
his power wanes.
Stuck again he wants her.
He needs her to feel alive.
She won’t give up control,
she holds tight to a fake pride
They both chase that high.
The adrenaline of that first kiss.
An unattainable sensation,
that is entertained through a string
of if onlys’ and what ifs?
The cycle is vicious,
will it ever cease?
This is not love,
it is a parasitic disease.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
I sketched a story around my battle between rain and it's contemporary, the wind,
last night.
Drawings outlined with a harsher pencilling , some softer in lucidity.
Can it be,
the entirety of ones journey
from birth till death
is all in the lines of pencilling.
I pencilled my story ,
reinventing possibilities,
what ifs,
if onlys..
Would things have turned out differently ........
Somehow ...
My sketch came out beautifully
.....entirely what it's all meant to be.
Chalkings .......
DK
June 2014
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Whoever said that the eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never seen
a set of poetic hands.
As they tumbled
syllables into songs
like waterfalls
roaring a powerful
“Hallelujah.”
Hands drenched in blood
decorated with scrapes and bruises
grasping for memories long repressed.
Memories only brought back
when their pen grazes the
inviting blank canvas before them.
2 o’clock in the morning
crying to no one in particular
as their heart slowly
but however, beautifully
bleeds onto the canvas,
crinkled around the edges
because it’s taken awhile
to get these words out.
Whoever said that they eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never gotten a glimpse
of the complexity that is
a poet’s mind.
Minds crammed with the
hurts of yesterday,
the dreams of tomorrow,
and the change they wish to bring about.
Different experiences call certain memories
from subconscious to conscious
as their dreams slow dance with doubt.
And their ideas for change
are wasted on ears
filled with fingers of ignorance.
Still they press on, in a
beautifully, depressing battle
of desire versus dejection.
Hoping a single phrase
will strike the ear
of someone who needed to hear it.
And touch
the heart of someone who needed to feel it.
Because the potential to reach
the unwilling,
the unable,
and the unwanted,
is worth the uphill struggle.
Whoever said that they eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never experienced
the power of a poetic heart.
Hearts strong with experience,
but cautious because of it.
The unrelenting beat
as it is used, stepped on,
and thrown away.
Do you hear it?
Ringing in your ears.
Unable to escape from
it’s heartbreaking
melody of “what ifs”
and “if onlys.”
Hiding behind
walls of regret
and instances of deceit
where it was once stolen.
911 was called,
but they were
cardiac arrested
for allowing this break in to occur.
An accessory to their own pain.
Whoever said that the eyes are
the windows to the soul
had obviously never met
a poet.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Fallen she screamed at the disgrace she faced
and at all those terrible things she couldn't change
Remembering sharp if onlys and could've beens
Presently watching time slip through her fingers
The price of one more lesson learned
One more burn
One more unspeakable discern
To derail or sink the remains of a ride stocked full of
lofty declarations and false pride
As she wrenched toward the sky questioning why
All feeling died
and from the ashes something sinister was born
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
I don’t regret breaking up with you,
Because our relationship wasn’t a healthy one,
Not for me.
But I also don’t regret loving you.
Love isn’t something you should ever regret.
It is one of the most beautiful and rewarding things in the world,
Even when it is for someone who really doesn’t deserve it.
I don’t doubt that you meant it when you said you loved me,
Because I think that you thought you did.
Love just didn’t mean the same thing to you that it did to me.
And that’s okay.
Everyone loves differently.
It may not be easy to understand why people act the way they do,
When they claim to have such deep feelings for you,
But I guess it just comes down to trusting that love works in mysterious ways. Maybe we didn’t work out,
But I learned a lot from you.
I learned how to appreciate someone who truly deserves my love.
I learned that you can’t force someone into a relationship
Because you have unrealistic expectations for what the two of you could be.
We were simply a summer fling that got dragged out too long
Because love meant different things to us.
I’m writing this now because you texted me last night,
And I’ve spent the past 24 hours thinking about “what-ifs” and “if-onlys”
And then I realized that I don’t really miss you anymore.
I still love you,
Because love isn’t something that just goes away.
The only difference is that I love you for who you are
And for what you taught me,
Rather than for who I wanted you to be.
So I want to thank you,
Because even though you hurt be badly,
You taught me more about love
Than a thousand good relationships ever could.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
There was a time I wandered through your garden,
starving.
And you—each of you—offered yourselves
as fruit swollen with promise.
I reached for you with cracked hands,
bit in with blind hunger,
and called the bitterness flavor.
You were beautiful.
God, you were beautiful.
But so is nightshade,
so is the blossom that blooms on the mouth of a grave.
Your sweetness was lacquered in arsenic,
your nectar dripped with need.
You tasted of almosts
and if-onlys
and don’t-you-dares
disguised as love.
I swallowed you whole.
Thank you for that.
Truly.
Because I needed the poison.
I needed to tremble.
I needed to wake at 3 a.m.
with my gut twisted into questions,
my lips still red from the lie.
You see,
each of you grew in soil watered by my self-doubt.
You thrived on my silence,
my contortion,
my careful pruning of self
to fit the shape of your hunger.
I tended you like a fool tends a ****
thinking it would blossom into medicine.
But you were never sustenance.
You were spectacle.
And I—
I was the banquet host,
laying myself out
course after course,
watching you feast
and ask what else I had to offer.
No more.
The garden is closed now.
I’ve uprooted every vine
that once climbed my spine like a lover.
I’ve tilled the rot,
turned the decay into compost,
and from it—
from it—
a single fig tree has risen.
Quiet. Modest.
But true.
She feeds me.
Not with frenzy,
but with fullness.
Not with hunger,
but with presence.
Her fruit doesn’t burn.
It lingers.
So to each bitter harvest:
Thank you.
Thank you for sickening me.
For seducing me.
For starving me so thoroughly
that when love finally arrived,
I could taste it—
and know it was real.
You were never the feast.
You were the lesson.
And I am no longer hungry.
— Formerly Yours,
Now Fed
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 2:24 AM UTC
I kiss you, I
kiss you, every night, I
kiss you;
in a dream that makes this 3-dimensional reality
seem flat: I touch your face, and
speak my thoughts out loud.
[and the sparks are there: red, orange, I swear]
I sigh -
breathing warmth into frozen words I
keep locked up in the light of day; oh, but
at night, I dream of
- the nevers
- the what-ifs
- the if onlys
Sustained by these solitary hours, and
under deep cover of moonlight and stars, these
evenings become my playground, and I
become what I could never be.
I dream; and when
I dream —
I kiss you…
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
I step onto the mat
the sudden softness springs the other awake
the one born of pain misery and focus
everything deafens
the world blocks out
its me and them
whoever wins the better
no complaints no if onlys ones stronger
ones weaker
everything blanks out thought included
it slows you down reaction after reaction
wistle blows your hands raised
the beast quiets
till called on again
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
It feels like nothing can mend the broken pieces of your heart--
Left here to be trampled upon.
Only he can fix it…but he is nowhere to be found…
Far away in a world that you may never enter,
A world that separates the true love of two sweethearts,
As if to play with them like dolls.
“You may love,” it says,
“But know that you can never be together,
For I keep a strict, binding contract
Made long before you met.
You are forever bound to your life here,
And that will never change."
It hurts…you know things
Could have been different.
Doubt begins to fill your head,
And soon you begin to hate…
Hate God for doing this to you…
Hate yourself for ever letting yourself end up this way.
Hate that there is nothing that can change
All bit of hope is lost, like nothing you do
Will ever change what is.
“Maybe I could…”
But there is no end to that sentence,
For what you could have done
Is too far into the past to revive.
“If only…”
But you learn that if onlys make the pain worse--
For knowing what could have been
Doesn’t change what it is now.
Thus once again you are left with nothing.
Nothing but hurt…pain…tears…
Brokenness.
Perhaps there is a way to change this nasty fate…
But God only knows how…
You think that if it is meant to be,
Things will work themselves out…
One can only hope.
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
Suddenly, two decades have passed, and she still hasn’t felt what the grown-ups used to call “growing up.” Not that she’d ever been one to imagine castles in the sky or knights on white horses, but she did imagine a bright future, one where she had friendships like the characters on TV seemed to have. They laughed and had adventures together and dropped by each other’s apartments and got beers every night. She imagined she’d have a job as an artist or a writer or a baker or something. The details were so blissfully vague, like watching a Spanish soap opera in soft filter. But it’s two decades into her life, and she feels sadder than she thought she would at this age, beaten down by life like she’s nearly done with it when all she wants to know is whether she’s going to have a job after she graduates. She makes semester-long friendships that end when the class does. She wonders if she can pay her bills on time. She thinks about the future in terms of the number of years it’ll take her to pay off her student loans. She thinks of her future as not much more than a long series of what-ifs and if-onlys.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
lies heavy upon me
in the mashed potatoes to my left
the beer on my right
the "if onlys"
and
"what ifs"
that weigh on my heart
the
"i'll get up and run!"
followed by
**** i'm too tired."
the
"help me,
come to this,
i need you,
don't forget the early meeting,
we need you,
come over here now,
help me."
step by step by step by step by step by step
the day progresses
and ends in a
beer to my right
mashed potatoes to my left
i will always run
tomorrow.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
Just take The Risk, risk The Chance,
Even if the cost is Lonely
Because nothing tastes as bitter
As what ifs and if onlys
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC