I wish I had the strength
to bear the pain of life,
where my caged heart suffers,
and the only one I
ever loved is someone
else’s bride. What God has
made this my gift? Why was
I created at all?
I rise each morning and
face the divine sun’s blows.
At night, I live in dreams.
There is passion in the words
of poets who fall in love with their first poems.
In ecstasy they wave their publication credits
around. They seek praise like a dog that can
roll over, sit, or play dead. The clapping hands
are few, some attached to the hands of other poets,
who seek the same praise for their own first poems
fresh out of their minds or fashioned at workshops
where poetry is trapped and put to death.
A POEM FOR THE HOPELESS
The last time we kissed,
I had no poems in my journals,
no wild stories about beasts or madhouses,
no longing for the music of a woman’s laughter,
no chants about the divine.
The lines came after,
some given to me by you.
I needed you more.
If I had to take score,
I would always struggle
with what life had in store for me.
I did not know what to do.
Without you I feel like nothing.
Who knows how I made it this long?
And I know I exaggerate a little.
I still don’t know if my life is a waste.
Will there be more love before I’m laid to rest?
A twist of fate
might arise out of this darkness.
I would take you back in a second.
There is no denying that.
Whatever is left of this heart,
whatever life I have left,
I would trade every poem I ever wrote for you.