1

Unwritten words
and unkempt promises
investments that never pay off
all the things that scare me
all the things that chase my heart
and make me lose my nerve
and write bad poetry
Shouldn't let it get to me
these things will happen, it's not personal
but that it is impersonal- that we are impersonal-
that's what frightens me most of all
and if there never came the day
that they would shine through
then I would rather I'd left those investments
unmade and unconsidered
What is worse than a broken heart
except maybe a broken poem?


2

You know what,
let them have it
Have they not earned
my contempt and my silence?
How many times
have I let them
let me down?
And were we ever
really close, anyway
Did I ever really know them
heart and soul, or a hint at
their aspirations
a taste of
their deeper selves
a whiff of
something more than their favorite fart jokes?
If there never was a way
of mattering, or investing everything we've got,
then I should withdraw my own small investment
made by an ill mind,
a weak heart,
and not much of a poet, either.


3

If there ever was
the slightest chance
that I might not lose my heart
to something so casual and ever-sought
might I have taken it
and gone on happily-ever-alone
These investments,
so poorly made
so carelessly unmade
and why should they care
to be more cautious with me
Not as though I've earned special treatment
By far, no, I have not
But still, so carelessly
and what am I to do
but learn from my mistakes
I sound pathetic,
and melodramatic,
but I'm trying to be honest
There's nothing I love more than honesty
Except maybe a mended heart
and a better poet than myself.


4

I've slapped together
a lot of empty words
that rhyme with emptier phrases
Because what I really want to say
has no words in any language,
except maybe in heart-beats
I remember day-dreaming
of angels coming to talk to me
disguised as strangers
and trying to be friends
they were the amorphous older boy,
almost a man, and pale,
like my brother
but a little older
I would invite these ghosts, Caspers all,
feeling I had no one
except maybe myself
Those were the days before I started writing
bad poetry
about broken hearts.