It is cold,

and I am lonely

like an indigent beggar

in the borough of Manhattan

where the rich and the poor

live in their ghost worlds.


I yell at the wind

and it roars back.

I prayed for answers

and received none.

Everyone who I have mistakenly

loved has become faint and distant

like far-off drums.


I read poetry to dull

the blade of my anger,

but it grows like a festering sore

it runs and itches. The itch grows

and my hands swell. My face bursts into flames

like when I was stunned by God.


I walk outside futilely

because it is dull inside.

It is dull because there is no life.

No uneven grass

like my facial hair.

No rotten fruits

like my heart


I want to forgive and forget

or grieve and let go for tomorrow

I will receive a call that will warm

me like the fireplace in my neighbor’s apartment.

But today I walk hollowed, uneven, and rotten.

Today I look for answers knowing there are




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