I wrote a poem. I called it Connor. I woke up to a beautiful day.

A day beautiful everywhere but inside my mind. Last night, I had seen the water shimmer white, though in nothing more poetic than Chlorofluoro light. The shimmer on the water was still beautiful to behold for my restless sleepless soul.

The morning I woke up to further beauty. Tormenting beauty. The birds chirping in their blissful abandon, herons, a white headed eagle, bulbuls, fucking bulbuls. I think grief removes something from your eyes. The tinted glassy-eyed goodness, and you squack at human-created beauty and poetry like an angry crow. And then you write your shit poetry, like a satire to everything ever written, but its true to your heart, it isn’t even presentable, let alone minorly edited, and you fling it at Facebook, as if daring someone to like it, as if daring my own imagined public image to shatter.

Connor: A Poem

I’m no Clapton,

but I remember,

my four-year old love,

fall to the ground.

I think of penguins,

I think of my college,

with my black-white headgear,

and my blissful lies.

free of pain,

the pain of love,

that could be lost so callously,

that it hurts to cry.

Of course, there was Love,

of a different kind,

it kept me alive,

like a child to thrive.

Raised by a Man,

a Man pure and loving,

He was just and true.

but a bird must fly,

away from its father,

mother, brother

All must die.

then I learnt to love,

a love so simple,

it felt unreal.

was it built to last,

was it built on truth,

was it built on expectations,

that would never survive?

I don’t know much,

but i do know this much,

that it hurts like crazy,

I’d prefer to die.

my precious love,

I hope you be happy,

you have your child,

I hope you find all you desire,

and still find peace,

in this wretched life.