I have never been hurt like now.

My heart has never dropped to the floor
like it does every time I see your name.

My chest feels like the victim
of a steel-toed booted foot
every time I think about you.

I thought that we were friends.

I thought that the smiles were authentic
and the laughs were real.

I suppose that I am a cancer,
needing to be surgically,
quickly
and expertly excised.

I suppose that I cannot
and should not
blame you.

I guess that I just deserved the word
goodbye.

I could write a poem
about where I was
when I read the latest news

about the graffitied walls
and the train tracks
under the cloudy heavens.

I could write a poem
about how I felt
when I realized that
another gave up hope

how my blue-green-grey eyes
swelled and teared
when the sky was unable
to release a single drop.

I could write a poem
about being alone
about being judged
about crying myself to sleep.

But what would it do?

It would not bring back the departed.
It would not alter reality.

It would only help me make it until tonight.
And tonight will help me until tomorrow.
And tomorrow to the day after.

I’ll see the sun again.
I can believe that.

A poem could bring hope.
Even if only to the poet.

With manners,
he said “Thank you”,
as his mother taught him well.

Covered
in pictures that told a story.

Telegraphing sorrow
I could not decipher,
in a language I fluently understood.

A new recruit,
an anonymous soldier in a growing army,
forced by circumstance to march,
clutching his world possessions,
into the dark unknown.

He requested a pittance,
coupled with an apology,
as it was his fault
he was conscripted.

A casualty of war,
a prisoner of reality,
a child abandoned
rejected
and expelled because of fear and hate.

With pure eyes,
he said “Thank you”,
as his mother taught him well.

I want to embark on a journey with you

We could become more awake with coffee
or more relaxed with wine

We could run ten miles at a good pace
or fly to wondrous places
together in our dreams
while holding one another in bed

I want to change my current state with you

I want to begin in one place and end transported
with you beside me the entire time

I don’t care how

Words traverse my veins,
powered by my heart,
with a steady and strong rhythm,
in black ink onto the white paper.

A lifeforce runs through my mind,
transported from the buds in my ears,
both soothing the savage thoughts
and maintaining the fiery passion.

My body is a petri dish
where the most fascinating metamorpheses occur.

My soul is restrained by nothing
flowing via my smile into passerby.

You make me smile.
With letters, symbols and words.

You make me smile.
With pictures.

You make me smile.
With your creativity, your vision and your levity.

You make me smile.
With your empathy, your understanding and your compassion.

You make me smile.
With new knowledge.

You make me smile.
When you say Hi.

Why are you always sad
he innocently asks.

How many friends 
do you really have
she inquires
with the best intentions.

Where are you going
to live
he questions as 
a modern day inquisitor.

When will you 
give me the rent checks
he text messages impatiently.

What is wrong
she quizzes me daily.

Will I ever find love.

Will I ever succeed.

Will I ever be happy.

One of the dancing dead I am.
Invisible to the dancer-by,
With no tangible effect on the environment.

One of the outcasts,
Part of the scenery,
An extra on the set,
Frightfully self conscious of my current role.

Not even a cog in the wheel,
For that would indicate utility,
Nor an additional electron in the cloud,
As that would cause an imbalance.

To be judged would be a blessing,
Because it would give me a chance,
As apathy is a curse,
Bestowed upon those who do not matter.

Frustration and Unhappiness tango the night away,
while the band plays and the sycophants mingle.
Their mirth speeds the tempo,
and our couple spins faster and faster.

A long banquet table is laid out,
the solitary diner is seated,
and with pomp and circumstance,
pity is served.

The other banquet-goers are engrossed in their own pursuit.
They shower attention on their partner with lively conversation, food and drink.
Passively ignoring their neighbor,
they partake in the most elegant version of foreplay known to man.

The singleton drinks alone,
straight from the bottle.
A glass is a social convention,
the other guests order goblets by the pair.

Loneliness and Emptiness start to Salsa on the dance floor,
their increased action giving the appearance of Joy,
but the true happy know that the happiest moments are those devoid of movement,
laying adjacently supine after the act.

As the lights come at the end of the night,
the solitary dancer is revealed,
replete with hands flailing in every direction,
while the other attendees engage in exchanging sweet lies.

The individual quietly absconds into oblivion,
as his peers debate on the location for the inevitable mutual conquest.