I have been bitten by
the ruthless rabid dog
of unrequited love.
It bore it’s teeth into my flesh.
It left my heart bleeding,
with a scar to remember by.

You make me, me
As much as I can possibly be
Please don’t take that away from me.

Waiting
on the front porch
going through
the newspaper,
sipping on green tea.

My heart
is looking out
into the distance
in search of
the shadow of you.

I’ll cry a sea of madness
and break down into
raging thunders for
you,
my darling.

But only if the
masts of your ship sails
in the direction of
the gale wind
that leads into
the uproar of
my love.

I’ll cry a sea of madness
and break down into
raging thunders for
you,
my darling.

But only if the
masts of your ship sails
in the direction of
the voyeuristic wind
that leads into
the uproar of the waves
that will tear you apart
with my volatile love.

Callow birds
shimmering highlights
of lilacs
on it’s busted mantle.
The lamppost tungsten
is a wax doll candle.
Paraffin paragraphs
jotted down on
clouds in paradise.
Throwing a tea party
at the neighbours lewd front lawn.
Resting place of
my weary head.
Wearing
our mountain tops//your shoulder,
my heart’s
hearth and
watershed.

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.