I have written too many sad poems.
My life has become a novel
that tells a tragic tale.
Sad words have hung themselves
as tapestries from the ceiling
casting ghostly shadows on the walls.
The tears that have fallen in the years
now make the floor boards slippery
with stale memories from the past.
Nostalgia looks at me through my window
with an evil, judging eye, staring,
reminding me of all my heart breaks.
In the hallway heart ache sings a calamitous
lullaby to the hurting sighs that swing and
collide with the lamenting weeps.
At the back of the room, an old television
plays in a loop the collection of the dreams,
the fantasies, that never got a chance to be born.
And I remember how I became the chameleon,
adjusting my feelings to please others but never
listening to my heart over the din of those other ones.
On my mirror dance reflections
of the possible other lives I could have had
but are now darkened by the ink that haunts me.
Because I have written too many sad poems.