You said I was so sad because I didn't love myself,
that if I weren't so
pathetically
unthinkably,
unconsolably,
sad
I would find myself with a friend or two.
I think you believed it
I think you thought it over and over in your head..
blaming
angry
accusatory
repetitively
carving out space for it behind your eyes
so you would never wonder
If my despair was not self inflicted…...
that perhaps I was crying because I loved myself
as I loved you,
and her
and all of them,’
and I thought I knew you
and her
and all of them
as well as I knew myself
And then she changed,
you changed like all of them
and when the curtain fell I was

pathetically
unthinkably,
unconsolably,
hurt , alone,
and still in love with myself
and wondering why I was not good enough for anyone anymore.
good enough to be in their presence
to be in their hearts;
to be carved behind their eyes.
I cry because after all that you
pathetically,
unthinkably,
unforgivably,
blamed me.
Angrily
assaulted and
accused me of existing
as less than
And reminded me
daily
I was alone.

Maybe I’m not sad because I don’t know myself.
I am sad because you don’t
I am not sad because I don’t know who I am.
I am sad because for you it was not enough.
I am not sad because I am lost,
I am sad because I no longer have a place to call home.
the only time I am disappointed in myself
Is when I allow myself to admit
That I miss you.

I cried unconsolably in public once.
I don’t remember why.

But people walked right past me.
Kind of like the gods when I cry to the sky.

Sometimes, I try to pray.
I’ll talk to the empty room, secretly hoping something’s listening.

I’ll cry to an empty room, hoping something is listening.
But then, I realize, the room is empty.

And my tears are falling to an indifferent world.
My tears are falling to an indifferent god.

My pain is mine alone.

And then I cry, because no one can hear me.
I cry, because I feel stupid for thinking anyone can hear me.

And then I cry harder because I come to the realization
that if someone is listening,
They’re on an invisible plane, walking right past me, watching me cry.

Sometimes, I’ll scream at the ceiling in my room.
I’ll scream, “Why, why why?”
At the things in the sky.

And I curse it. I curse every god I know.

I taunt them to take me.
I curse and scream at my existence and their ineptitude

Because I secretly hope something is listening.

Because if they take me, it means something is listening.
And if someone was listening
And I died
it means I was never alone.

But then I realize I’m pleading with an empty room.

And then I cry, because no can hear me.
I cry, because my cries for death were met with indifference

And then I realize,
That humans don’t want my pain
And the things don’t want it either  

And then I realize,
That I’m either totally alone
Or just another thing, prone to cry
To the things in the sky

A dab of rhythm
and a splash of rhyme
over a stretched canvas
of childhood
bring to mind
daffodils on clouds
and tygers burning their way
through forests
while the dying jaberwocky smiles
through fearsome jaws
bemused by the man waving
too far from shore.

And to one side a walrus
unconsolably weeps
having consumed
one too many oysters
unwittingly adding
to the commercial value
of the sea shells on the sea shore.

In the corner
a patient spider
chats to a passing fly,
oblivious of the forecast
of torrential rain,
which proves resistant
to any admonishments
to go away until another day.

Down comes the rain
and a hoard of children
pile into an old shoe
ignorant
of the empty food cupboard
thanks to their gluttonous dog.

And surveying the whole scene
is a benevolent coal stained king
smoking through a managerie of a beard,
wondering where his second shoe has gone to...

I sigh, put the kettle on
and whitewash the whole canvas
to start afresh.