The one I love isn’t loved. She
Doesn’t even read my poetry.
Strangers read my lines,
Knowing the what, but not for whom, it pines.
She is behind a wall
And doesn’t care for me at all.
If this is the definition of hell,
Perhaps I know suffering well.
Full of self-doubt, she doesn’t find
My love for her in her mind.
Human beings want to make things right
Every day and every night.
The mother bird wakes, sings her song
In the night, with no idea she is wrong.
The couples enter the restaurant
Oblivious to my want.
The one I love isn’t held. Or adored.
She doesn’t hear my voice, or the chord,
Or the pitying sadness I sing,
Longing and sadness invading everything.
She and I see the same moon, the same sky,
The same tumbling clouds sweeping by,
Hear the same news of the same tragedies,
Know the same temperate day which dies,
Feel the same night which is too cold,
Note the same trends, new or old.
We lie awake, pondering the same fate,
The same advancing death. We both wait.
We both walk and talk and laugh
Almost on the same path.
She is behind a wall
And doesn’t care for me at all.
I love one who isn’t loved. She
Is my Shakespearean tragedy.
Every one needs one of these
To really love. So please,
I don’t need your feeling, or care.
Pity her. Oh God! She’s right there.