"unresponded" poems
any two people coming together can be a game/life changer
but without intimacy they are only like
a fish without water a bird without air
leaves without roots dreams without a dreamer
this dazzling carousel of constant stimuli
this attack of never-ending newness
that spins the world is the ******* of void
I dissapear from thought I dissapear from heart
I am just a message an unresponded voice
a poor sign without the depth of symbol
an avoided truth an impossible commitment
there is no time there is no space for giving and receiving
the most precious substance, our deeply lonely selves
the tears are helpless, here it is, have some void
it evacuates itself in language, oh, language games
played with much innocence, and eagerness
I contemplate the void in mesmerizing eyes voices words
taking responsibility for illusions the hardest bit
the body knows first about the danger left behind
by a theoretical love
only by entering the void I can feel it, oh yes
the ******* of emptiness is inside me, too
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 5:48 AM UTC
When the monster realized no one would respond
to its cries for help, it decided to go and help anyone
who needed it late at night;
self-destructing souls without bright enough lighthouses
to guide help to their half-rotten ports,
ghosts trying to breathe properly under
muffled pain.
The monster’s help was always taken as an attack to
someone’s childhood, so when parents finally convinced
their youngsters that monsters do not exist,
the possible relief of any unresponded pain
was immediately vanished too.
The monster of course never stopped trying,
because the monster knew
and the monster had seen those lighthouses
and their little broken lamps.
But every time it laid its little hurt hand to reassure
someone everything would be alright,
however fake that promise was,
the self-destructing soul would turn its back to the monster,
the ghost would stop trying to listen.
The monster then would start talking to aching limbs
and the limbs would explain why stars keep falling
and why planets can just as easily turn to black holes,
but the monster always preferred the rare occasions of happy story-telling,
where stars and planets always shined bright
and didn’t feel the need to bear wishes on their backs
just to have a small moment of awareness by the world.
Or maybe it was an act of hopelessness,
and that was their last resort.
You see, “Quick, make a wish!”,
and no one ever thinks of making a wish
to save the falling star.
Meteor showers are massive suicides,
the monster thinks to itself,
before returning under the bed.
Tomorrow night, it’s the wardrobe’s turn.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
If only life were an iPod,
if only we could replay last June
as we replay Miles David.
Sweaty and sticky and white wine drunk.
Finding rocks for our lovers,
eating mushrooms together and I was so scared when you walked in the highway.
It was the only time I raised my voice at you and I'm sorry.
People change, they drift apart
and there is no courtesy of a breakup.
Texts left unresponded, calls unanswered, letters unwritten, their is no quick bandaid rip, no 'I don't think we should see each other anymore.'
There is confusion and anxiety and guilt and selfblame and tears, and I wish I could press replay on last June.
Instead "Kind of Blue" is on repeat and I still cry every time the album finishes and I still miss and love you
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
Love is majorly one sided seeks not a reciprocate
our love may not be returned that's far we can hope to get
though it is thus often destined love knocks the wrong address
don't lose heart for we were right we showed no miserliness.
If one way it's our way we have no other choice
love's fountain when springs listens to no other voice
our call if goes unresponded not touch the heart meant for
we deserved it for we loved never expecting a returned favor.
We may break time and again each time our love is spurned
but our act of loving never goes astray if not once returned
no way can we decide the course have no say in the matter of heart
we have to have the belief in us when we make from our side a start.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
Why is it that the people we think of first,
are the last to think of us?
When messages are left unresponded to,
yet are seen.
When calls are left un answered,
yet herd.
We are left to deal with these emotions alone.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
Dust laden and bare,
The wall is growing high,
I’m throwing my kisses in the air,
Where unresponded they lie.
I’m touching my hand on my lip,
The void is growing cold,
They only come in the sleep
As dreams of the worn and old.
I’m dying to get close,
The boat is getting away from the shore,
My breaths are stopping under my nose,
They can’t blend with hers anymore.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
From the desert,
which is far away,
Came little bird,
seeking for place to stay.
When he was crossing,
unknown garden
The Irish daisy’s
occurrence sudden
Made him forget how
To fly and breathe.
And made him fall,
on thorns beneath.
Abruptly standing
Up, he began his song.
Here is, enjoy!
Won’t make you wait long:
“Without you a moment
Is like a century for me!
Your short absence is such a torment
Made me question: to be or not to be?
The land where you are
Is like an entrance of cemetery.
But land with no thee,
Is graveyard saying: not to be!
I want to own selfishly,
Your snowy petal’s tenderness,
And to declare jealously,
A war,
To those who are
Drunk with your scents!
Recall,
A moment is the century
On your absence!”
This is the end of song,
But yet
This Irish daisy is
Making my bird upset.
We seek just happiness
In an unhappy world,
Which has confessors
With unresponded song!
May 27, 2025
May 27, 2025 at 7:16 PM UTC