Posted in heartbroken, life, original, Relationship

A Decent Man

It hurts to know
That the ones who you thought are going to love you true
Could hurt you so deeply

Sleepless nights
Recalling not seeing the signs
The men who you thought are the only exceptions
Become mortal before your very eyes

It hurts knowing that they are after all the same as the rest
The heroes, the knights that you once thought they were
Mere facade

A father and now a brother
I am losing hope
And I wonder if those became lesser
Are there any decent men left of this Earth?

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When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.



– Maya Angelou –

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End of the World

When I was young in school in Switzerland, about the time of the Boer War,

We used to take it for known that the human race

Would last the earth out, not dying till the planet died. I wrote a schoolboy poem

About the last man walking in stoic dignity along the dead shore

Of the last sea, alone, alone, alone, remembering all

His racial past. But now I don’t think so. They’ll die faceless in flocks,

And the earth flourish long after mankind is out.    


-Robinson Jeffers-

Posted in original

A Poem For No One

I write for no one, no one in particular

not to the boy begging on the street

not to the man playing his guitar

not to the old lady carrying a heavy sack

or to the woman carrying a child in her arms

I write for no one

not you not me

not him or her

not for the child who’s playing all alone

or the child enjoying an ice cream

I do not dedicate this to anyone

I dedicate this for all

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An Old Man’s Winter Night

All out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him — at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; — and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man — one man — can’t keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It’s thus he does it of a winter night.

– Robert Frost 

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A Man’s Requirements

Love me Sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing;
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being.

Love me with thine open youth
In its frank surrender;
With the vowing of thy mouth,
With its silence tender.

Love me with thine azure eyes,
Made for earnest grantings;
Taking colour from the skies,
Can Heaven’s truth be wanting?

Love me with their lids, that fall
Snow-like at first meeting;
Love me with thine heart, that all
Neighbours then see beating.

Love me with thine hand stretched out
Freely — open-minded:
Love me with thy loitering foot, —
Hearing one behind it.

Love me with thy voice, that turns
Sudden faint above me;
Love me with thy blush that burns
When I murmur ‘Love me!’

Love me with thy thinking soul,
Break it to love-sighing;
Love me with thy thoughts that roll
On through living — dying.

Love me in thy gorgeous airs,
When the world has crowned thee;
Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,
With the angels round thee.

Love me pure, as muses do,
Up the woodlands shady:
Love me gaily, fast and true,
As a winsome lady.

Through all hopes that keep us brave,
Farther off or nigher,
Love me for the house and grave,
And for something higher.

Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear,
Woman’s love no fable,
I will love thee — half a year —
As a man is able.

– Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Posted in original, special

He’s The Man

he’s tired and old but definitely worth more than gold

it was this day not long ago that he came to be

becoming precious to my family and me


the crease on his forehead shows the time,

with it you’ll see his life’s rhythm and chime

all through the years he’s done so much, and probably too little

yet I know he’s done what he can ; that’s something not to belittle


he’s the apple of my eye, yes he’s a very special guy

I love him dearly, most honestly and sincerely

he’s none other than my dad and I’m so glad

to greet him on his special day

“Dad, have a wonderful birthday”

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The Happy Old Man (the old couple part 2)

…he came trotting down the lane, bringing a bag of popcorn

he seems to be dancing on a beat while walking

he’s got this broad smile on his face

fitting for a sunny weather


his thin lips was lined with wrinkles and folded skin

he could have been eighty but his happiness made him look younger

his white hair was rare, as he has lost most of his hair

he whistling as he was walking

and contagious was his happiness that people he passed,

could not help but beam up at him and smile…

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The Streets

The streets are full of people

walking, running, laughing, others just mum

while everyone is busy with their own life

an old man lies on the street

curled up on the side, in this cold dark night

his white hair showing under the street lamp

his skin against his aged bones

he’s nothing but skin and bones


They walk past him, not caring, not daring to care

either afraid to or plainly just nothing

I observe from afar, divided by the glass of the window

as the rain slowly trickles down

the old man tugs on his ragged clothes

and torn up sack of a blanket

he shivers, he’s cold

yet he lay there still, not moving much

perhaps too cold to

perhaps too sleepy to

perhaps too weary to

or too hungry to move


A saint I am not but a bowl of soup in hand

would surely fill his stomach and soul

but before I could get up from where I was seated

a good Samaritan came

covered the old man with warm blanket

and gave him food to eat

she took him to a shelter afterward,

not far from where he lay


The streets are harsh

difficult to survive

but that night it was different

that night it became warm

warmer than a summer’s evening