when there’s no , what?

and all the people
trying to make their sorrow seem bigger
try to speak
and cry
I dont know why

Weeping in silence without the luxury of tears
is fine
even better
better than stories of how
my sorrow took me off my feet

shots of whiskey
drunk neat

thats how you do it
thats how you weep at night
when theres no one seeing
when theres no one spying
when you can cry
without the luxury of tears
when theres no words
to speak your sorrow

thats how you do it..



the slow death of a clock
of time
of moments
lost not knowing where
or how they pass

the slow death of time
of life
of everything around
and all thats left are thoughts
and dreams
in the deepest core
satisfied in their own sense
but leaving you alone
with a life
where life has gone.

let that pain sink in

ground you

break you

bring you back to the real world

where pain is everywhere

let it sink in,

and show how addicted you were

to flying high;

to happiness

let it sink in

And alter all your beliefs


,That you so held close

let it sink in

and don’t say a word

don’t complain

don’t cry

it’s alright

let that darkness in

by the window

I feel the sting of it
Every single time
it touches me
burns my tongue
Everytime you say nothing
and I sit alone
by the windows
asking to be freed
to be easied*

I feel it’s sting every day
I wake up
I feel my throat dry
and I wet it
With Waters of all kinds
to feel quenched
And I feel dry even more

I feel it’s sting everyday
I walk up
To the class room
my heart aches
You say nothing
And I escape
by the window
Into the stars
where I float

I must be saddened
Or maddened
By love

Or no love.

all the lonely people

there is such desperation
and tremor in people
taking offense of everything
quaking in pain
waiting to shout out
to every possible person
of their disdain
and their out of luck life
rotting in the gutters of a city
with no time to feel the depth of any instance
any emotion
rotting away
with lesser and lesser time
rotting away
with only words to brace their meaningless life

in contrast
a sullen man
in a dark room
playing a melancholic tune
on his violin
or his radio
cries in silence
lays in torment
and carries on with his job
writing poems and articles for the newspaper ;

is a better way to
rot away

corpses in love

a poem that’s not wholly satisfying
or a love that’s not complete
could be the worst things
one could feel
everything on the edge
words , left basking in the sun
On the edge of one’s tongue
everything on the edge
the slowing down of life
every emotion laid naked
And undone

this is the worse of the  two
the other is somewhere in England

a message from the old man

People walk by
thousands and hundreds of them
They walk by the shops
the old man selling peanuts
the lights lighting the way
and me,
On a scooter
rotting away into the night
and then a thousand more people walk by
and it doesn’t make a difference
and it won’t
the cold winds begin to blow
and it’s time to go
I should be going
but I don’t
I sit here
And wait for a thousand more people to walk
I don’t know why.