Why i write: why i should not

When life overwhelms me,

as is the case much too often nowadays,

the only release is tears, or words,

now, my tears are worthless,

as is generally the case,

but at least I try to make my words mean something.

i try to make my words rhyme,

but they don’t do all the time,

and then i just sound silly.

when i begin a new poem,

my emotions are as deep as the fathomless sea.

but when i put my poem into words,

these words, they are nothing but borrowed moments,

i don’t know why i bother to write, when it would just be better to cry.

 

Do the Angels hear me cry?

Tell me, my friend,

Do they count tears in heaven?

Do the angels hear them fall,

Silent, soft, unseen, as they roll down my face,

Even when I’m all alone.

Does anyone hear me cry,

When I cry all alone.

Even when I don’t cry for myself,

When I cry for everything,

But nothing in particular,

When unbridled emotion overcomes me,

When the weight of humanity bears down on me,

When I feel I’m responsible for all the sin and the hate,

When I believe it is me who has to change,

So that all may change on this world.

When I am overcome, but so alone,

All I can do is cry in helpnessness,

Do, at least, the angels hear me?

And keep count of my tears?

So, somewhere, perhaps,

Somehere,

Even crying, all alone,

Counts for something.

The Ghost

1

I reached forward to touch her. As my fingertips reached her skin I felt a tingle run through my body, a sort of mild electric current prickling my skin, quickening my heart and pushing my breath. She felt… warm. And soft. And strange. Almost… non-material, as if she was woven of wisps of mani-textured smokes. But real. Yet how? This had to be something extrasensory. Can you have a body of gaseous stuff? Was she a vision? No. Maybe, but she was a feeling. Can you feel a vision? I’ve heard hallucinations are visual. No, but some are… real. Some hallucinations infringe on reality… become real in the moment. Some hallucinations become real, yes. Reality. Some hallucinations are reaity. Some realities are… hallucinations.

They say, if you look into the eyes you can tell a phantom from a person. The phantom has no flicker in the soul. The soul is a fire in the eye. Her eyes burn. They burn right into the core of my being. The essence of my existence feels naked and revealed in her gaze. Who witnesses whom? Who stands before whom for the judgement? Am I her dream or is she my fantasy?

But… she is too beautiful to be real. And why would such beauty form from imagination one such as me? I am not fit to be anyone’s fantasy. I know that, I have known that… always.

Then, it is certain. She is mine. And it is certain she is a fantasy. For, who else would deign to look upon one such as me with those eyes. Those eyes which say… I see you, deep, deep within. And who would let me touch… so, that it quickens my breath and pushes my heart. Away. Away. Away.

The Death of a Butterfly

I found a butterfly on the concrete floor that must have for it stretched a hundred miles. Now when the winter’s coming, it has been three months since the first butterflies of this year sprouted their wings and flew. This, my friend, was thus in the woes of its last breath. A butterfly on the verge of death. What torment it must be for a butterfly who after the endless slumber of the cocoon woke into a world of flower and fragrance only to sleep again, for ever now, so soon. So soon. And what horror that this death must come on a sun-scorched concrete floor.

At first, when I was close enough to distinguish it from a fallen leaf, I did think it was dead. So I bent to pick it up. It would make a fine treasure to be secretly buried away in some obscure poetry book to delight my descendants some day. Why not let it be a tribute to Robert Browning whom I’ve been reading today, I thought? I could place it for Fra Lippo Lippi to contemplate and assuage his pride. But as I touched it it trembled. Some creatures tremble to the human touch even when they’re dead. But this one was yet alive.

I lifted it, placed it on my palm and gently blew to separate its wings. She fluttered her wings. Was it a thanks? My breath she thought was the wind. For with the tremulous flutter she lifted herself. But she was so weak! She began to fall but with a last gasp of strength she shook her wings again, checked her fall and clung on to my shirt. I waited for her to fly away. She remained there.

I stayed still then for a while not wanting to disturb her rest. I was still expecting her to take wing after a while but when she didn’t I knew it was my responsibility to find her a place to rest. Rest in a place good enough for a butterfly. A place for a butterfly to die. I moved slowly. I kept steady. So she would not fall. I would take her around the house to the small garden in the front.

It was on a small, pink rose that I placed the butterfly. A young rose only beginning to bloom. It is in the roses of bloom that butterflies must die.

**