All my love

I made her a cup of coffee,

sweet and creamy, as she likes.

I picked her favourite flowers,

green and blue to match her eyes.

I baked her warm, French bread

using the most famous recipe.

I painted her a picture

of an endless, wonderous sea.

I sang her sweet melodies

that floated like a kite.

I knitted her a sweater

to keep her warm at night.

I gave her all my love,

my sweet heavenly maid.

I gave her all my love,

and how was I repaid?

She did not drink my coffee.

She did not smell my rose.

She did not eat my bread.

She did not look at my picture.

She did not listen to my song.

She did not wear my sweater.

I told her, 'I love you',

and she did not reply.

Existence 101

Put your hand up quietly if you want to leave,

or if you want to breathe.

Say please and thank you as we shackle you to these

societal expectations.

Innovations made to cage the nation.

Chase the empty symbols.

The singles in your area

can quiet your hysteria.

And if you ever question why

we’ll only sigh and remind you

of when you signed your soul over to us.

Be patient, we’re just the agents.

It’s with Satan you’ll want to discuss.

Consumed with consumerism.

A prison of desires and lusts.

I must make a post to save the whales

as I toss another plastic bottle in the ocean.

Never still enough to think of consequences

or mend the fences.

To make real friends made of blood

not pixels. I’m fixated on fantasies

with no gravity. Digital insanity.

Was it better before or after the pills?

They’re still keeping me at the brink, I think,

between depression and something worse.

I curse, then reverse and re-rehearse

my scripted smile and pleasantries.

Why go out and plant twenty trees

when I can stay at home and choke for free?

If only I had the drive to take back my mind

but alas, the thought is lost in the froth

of the waves of the storm as I’m torn between

one distraction and another.

I could keep trying but why bother?

I put my hand down, turn my frown around

and wait for the sweet sound

of the clock running out.

Existence 101, class dismissed.

I hope it was all worth it

because I have no idea what comes after this.

Not a poet

I'm not a poet.

I'm just a half-baked, wannabe novelist

who can't go a few sentences without

freezing up with writer's block.

So I slap on a few lines,

put in a pretentious

line break every now and then

and call it a day.

Poetry is the highest form of literature,

I cope to myself.

My creativity bleeding out from

another aborted story

dying to be told.

Someday, I tell myself.

Someday, I say again years later.

Someday.