Just Tell Me

Do not cheat me.
Tell me you’re lonely.
Tell me you want more.
Tell me all openly.

I have been cheated on;
When I had the chance to,
I did not.

I have believed in love,
I waited in its garden;
Even when winter set in,
Hoping for the thaw of spring.
I stopped, when I knew,
Standing all alone in the snow,
My wait was foolish.

The cold had its own beauty;
But I couldn’t bear it.
I like the grey,
But devoid of the cold.

If you have brought me,
To this new garden,
Where spring now has roses aflower,
Do not leave me alone.
If you must,
Let me know,
If you develop allergies
To the flowers – or worse, to me.
Tell me
You have to go.

I prefer the grey
Not the pitch black of ignorance.
Speak to me of love,
Rid me of romance,
I will not pull back.

Just tell me,
You want to visit other gardens;
So I can prepare
And make a future winter
Or, if that is not possible
Than, at least,
Travel to a warmer one.

Don’t cheat on me
With lies
Or the omission of truth.

Just tell me:
So I do not suppose
And blame neither the thorn
Nor the bloodiest rose.

A Certain Sun

The morning gives me no solace:
It has come with heat and light
And I find myself asking
For the dark horns of the night.

Then I find love, soaked in desire,
Wrapped up in your arms and hair,
Smells of burgers and coffee,
Snarled sheets hiding all that’s bare.

The sun brings in the future,
The future has torn the heart,
Time sheds light on the knowledge,
That soon you and I must part.

Families, jobs, money wait;
The sun brings them all back in;
I fear what the world might say,
How you were lead in to sin.

The sun burns my exposed skin,
All hair shines like molten fire;
The sun just shows me the truth,
The stars just show me desire.

I could wait for the next moon:
Who knows just what I might get;
But memories of ones before
Depend on how soon you’ll forget.

The sun barges through the window.
I lean back and draw the curtain.
I note: it’s only his return
Of which I am fully certain.

Being Made to Believe

I was made to believe in all that’s right;
My elders told me good always prevails,
The day always follows the darkest night,
One succeeds despite all the times one fails;
They said keep faith, have strength, do the right thing;
Rise up each and every time you fall;
Trust in life, no matter what it may bring,
In time, tears do end, love does conquer all.

Now I’ve seen bad things happen to the good,
Seen fools prosper, the fatigue of the wise,
Though I lived just as I was told I should,
I acquired a heartache that never dies.
And yet I find I’ve this lesson to learn:
Those who leave, seldom, if ever, return.

Here I Am – A Moon Song

Here I am again.
Looking at the moon.
Somewhere in my heart
There beats a familiar tune.

She sings to the sky –
She shines through the night.
I have loved her before –
I have been loved by light.

The sun struggles to rise;
This love triangle I know;
The moon lies and lies and lies;
But the sun burns me so.

So I crave for the dark
And, when the sky is night,
I yearn for her crescent
That waxes so bright.

But I’ve heard her song,
It may cut like a knife,
The illusion of love
Is much cause for strife.

The moon shall wane,
She will break me with pain;
The sun will laugh and laugh
When he rises, unfailingly, again.

I used to wish upon a star;
But wishes are games;
When you wish upon stars,
Who remembers their names?

They are but suns,
That will someday die,
Or will just erupt
And shoot out of the sky.

I rely on the moon.
She dispels all noise.
She wanes and she waxes;
But never destroys.

I look to her for counsel,
She never gives it clear;
Since I turn to her often,
She holds me very dear.

So I sit quiet and stare,
I do not complain,
She knows me by now,
She soothes most of my pain.

She is my muse,
I depend on her face,
She trumps the sun,
For she taught me grace.

They Warn Me

They warn me I speak too much of my heart:
I am too vocal about what I think:
I mention every thought right at its start:
Way before the mind and heart form a link.
They say I am too childlike and confess
All that I know; let my truth rule my voice;
And let my conscience turn its duress,
On certainties, both traumatic and nice.

I know not what power compels me so,
To hone neither tact nor diplomacy;
I love, I laugh, I cry, I feel, I show –
I may do it all quite complacently.
No burden of regret makes me believe;
I go on wearing my heart on my sleeve

The Fan’s Woe

The night has lain down, once more, on my tiny bed;
The silence is broken, by a fan overhead;
Darkness is lit, by flutterings of windowed light;
Images from the day still burn into my sight.
Your hands on my body still leave tendrils of fire;
Yet it was never just a matter of desire –
There was that bittersweet yearning I thought had gone:
Something that had no hope of being reborn.
I surmised wisdom made sure it was left behind –
A few lessons, growing older had taught the mind;
But here it lies, near night, yearning for touch again;
No matter that it comes with the sure price of pain.

The fan creaks, speaking, it tells me, it knows it all,
It has been technical witness to each shortfall.
It blusters the air doing its job as always,
It has seen all that leaves and felt who stays.
So now it addresses me, like a parent dear,
While the darkness addresses all of my fear.
There is not very much to say or do but write;
Maybe this is how I regain clarity of sight.
My eyes droop and I think of his bright, tawny stare,
His head bent over my body, his tousled hair,
My fingers in it, as he tastes a part of me,
Which has been savoured by, oh, so many,
And, I must say, if pain is the sole attraction,
This just goes to speak of my sad heart’s detraction,
And Loneliness that never, truly, left my bed,
Unless you include the groaning fan overhead.

The Circus Clown

Making the same mistake over again,
Leaves me hardly any room to complain.
Admitted that I have wounds to relieve,
Self worth that never fails to deceive,
A hope that never seems to fall to defeat,
Or opposed needs that could ever meet
The passion, that raises an ironic head,
While intelligence leaves its bed.

I fall for a sweet word mumbled in dry tones,
Via uncaring lips or vacuous telephones;
I fall for a kind look and lovely hair,
I forget the rendering and the despair.

I fall to rise again like a circus clown
I just can’t seem to learn to stay down.
I fall.

It is like a roller coaster ride:
So filled with thrills I cannot deride.

Words are so beautifully spoken
I hear them despite them being broken.
But, though I’m tired of falling, I see it clear:
My fears, though numb, are almost dear,
As if that hope I had, now, has clawed deep
And being awakened shall never sleep.

In mistakes then, it shall seek a solace,
That never stays in one time or one place.
So on I blunder, and get held by warm lies,
And truth shall fail, no matter how it tries
To make sense of the world that is now mine,
That knows joy for rare, brief seconds of time.