Moving On

April 13, 2013

I can feel you forgetting me,
feel myself fading.
Once I flowed through you,
rushing like a river,
slicing great canyons of sorrow
but now that river has stilled
and is slowly freezing solid.

I can feel you moving on,
feel myself falling behind.
Once I walked beside you,
ever present,
casting a shadow across your heart,
but now that shadow has diffused
and is slowly giving way to a new light.

I can feel you loving again,
feel myself losing my grip.
Once I encompassed your world,
the only thing you believed in,
holding you back from life,
but now that anxiety has dropped away
and is slowly becoming the past.

I can feel a great relief,
feel you living your dreams.
Once I worried you were broken for good,
lost alone forever,
but now you are taking steps anew
and are slowly becoming who you once were.



March 18, 2013

Write me a letter;
it’s all that I ask.
Not that you mail it,
I need never know,
but put down in words
the things that you feel,
the things that you know,
and those that you don’t.
Write everything;
any thought that comes to mind,
and every feeling you might have,
and when you’ve finished
come to me
and tell me you love me.
I will wait for you.
And if you never come,
I shall understand.
And if you’re by my side tomorrow,
I shall know that it is real.

New Soul

March 2, 2013

In the half-light born,
a brand new soul
to a dying world.
Shadows over soft blue eyes,
looking to a future
no one chose.
such events were celebrated:
a fresh-lit flame,
a beacon of love,
a bundle of joy.
But this is a changed world.
One in which new parents
feel only apologetic–
where birth is mourned,
and death yearned for.


December 24, 2012

Sitting here, beneath this aging oak,
– they told me as a child not to do that –
I look out at the rain.
My improvised shelter is no great shakes;
giant drops drum at my scalp
and run, chillingly down my back.
One, two, three, four.
I can’t tell where I’m wet
and which parts are just cold;
all I know is
my rain-coat wasn’t made for this.
Raining so heavy,
all around me looks a strange shade of grey;
the water beats the ground,
splashes growing larger as the level rises.
One, two.
Getting closer.
People lucky enough to be in cars
race past, forging through the floods,
great sheets of water cascading around them,
sending ripples –
no, waves, towards the curb and me.
Thunder deafening now, right above me,
flash and bang hand-in-hand,
nothing to count,
heart of the storm,
nature’s rage all around me.
Twice I think it’s about to subside;
twice its fury redoubles,
as though it’s telling me personally,
it will calm down when it’s good and ready.
It. He. Whatever your take,
there’s real power in the skies,
crashes and flares
shaking the earth,
shaking souls,
striking fear.
My tree sways, groans, lists, screams;
my stomach lurches beneath it
– they told me as a child not to do that.


The Poet

October 25, 2012

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

And with a thousand rhymes,
I’ve lost a thousand times
for none of them did last.
Every love I ever wrote
has faded into past.
And every girl I write to life,
I take to higher climes,
with deeper loves and longer verse
but every foray ends the same
– as though I have been cursed –
for every poem ends in pain,
a trend that’s growing worse.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

But for a thousand years
or so it seems,
I’ve written only tears.
And a thousand dreams
have left me only fears,
for none have ended happily.
Just like all my poetry;
When the final line is writ
I am left with only me
and any light that might have lit,
once the poem ends, dies with it.
And the thousand loves I’ve brought to be
have all thus waned inevitably.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

Oh, I have loved a thousand women;
None of them were real.
Not one of them could feel
the love I felt for her.
The heartbeats that I wrote
were never really there
and all the forms my pen caressed
and all the faces fair,
all the golden hair
and all the moments shared
existed only on the page,
the fickle paper stage
I made for them
to dance upon,
for them to love me on –
I, the only one who ever cared.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

A thousand dreams;
a thousand lines;
a thousand rhymes;
a thousand smiling pairs of eyes;
a thousand women
in my mind.
And if my mind’s where they must be,
then what is in this world for me?
Why live on interminably
if I must be so lonely?
A thousand loves I’ve had;
a thousand lives I’ve lived
and yet I’m left so sad.
For they are all behind
but who’s to say that they weren’t real?
And who’s to say that I won’t find
a thousand more in time?
I only need to write another opening line…

I have loved a thousand women;
all of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles.
I’ve lived a thousand lives
and loved a thousand times,
all inside my mind.
So why go back outside?



Read more: Poetry Here and Now

Falling Fruit

August 18, 2012

When the fruit falls from the tree,
this is its rebirth.
It spends so much time
and consumes so much energy
to be just like all its brothers and sisters
and all those that came before it
growing with such certainty and security
until finally
it takes a dive into the unknown
falling towards the ground
falling faster as it nears
just as we grow exponentially
the more deeply we throw ourselves
into the dark abyss of ignorance.


May 28, 2011

The voice in my head
is only my own
but it talks to me
in a horrible tone.
He reminds me how worthless I am,
how hard to be around;
he tells me why nobody likes me
and all these things compound.
He shows me the things
I don’t want to see
and I have to believe him
because he is me.
At times it is hard
and I pray for quiet;
I think about suicide
but I’m too proud to try it.
With these negative thoughts,
I torture myself
fixating on things
I should place on the shelf.
And like this it goes,
for days, sometimes weeks
like a bottomless chasm,
between mediocre peaks.
I wake of a morning,
can’t get out of bed
for the sheer lack of joy
that’s engulfing my head.
Everything I encounter
makes the voice speak out;
everything that I see,
gives me all the more reason to doubt
and it never leaves,
never really goes away
but after every struggle,
there eventually comes a day
when I feel I’m in control
and though the voice remains,
from somewhere I find the power
to cast it into chains
and keep it confined in the depths of my mind
and when it starts to nag
I drown out the sound
of its infernal drag;
I ignore its commentary
and I force myself to smile
and like this it goes
until after a while,
the smile is real
and I start to feel
like I’m back
behind the wheel.
Then the good days ensue
and I’m happy again
and for the duration
I can forget the pain
that came over me,
seized from inside.
I can let myself pretend
that the voice has died.

You used my love against me,
made a prison of my heart;
You kissed me just to trap me,
then you watched me fall apart.

You threw away the only key
and left me there to die,
captive to my own naivete
and still I don’t know why.

The very day that I met you,
you cast me in these chains.
Now every day I feel anew,
so much insufferable pain.