Man without an address

Sometimes I recall the faces of all 

the girls I have loved a decade  ago, 

who refused to love me for who I was; 

Its all fair, a boy without a game, 

yet there's a pain which comes up 

from somewhere deep within, 

murmurs in the heart, as doctors would say-

no one ever weeps for the weak or 

the unwanted, its what we do-

we feel sorry, and sometimes I am

 guilty of being sorry for myself.

It's not about love though, or those special ones- 

them gals of my heart 

(there's plenty of both in this world) 

it's about the agony of trying too hard 

when you are young and believing this is it 

-"the fallacy of sunk costs" , sunk emotions. 

Screw them writers and fancy poets who

 lights up your emotions like gasoline;

what of the fleeting hearts and what of the

 poetry for the ones who got away

The ones who were never meant to be.

such is the story of life- we want what we 

want, and then far away in this country 

where it snows every evening I often hear 

a good old Rolling Stone song in Joey's pub; 

"You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need"

and I repeat these lines in my head,

in crisis and in health.

There's solace in the silent victories of 

being a man without an address, of 

gulping sorrow as if its food-

there's solace in these evenings- 

where I keep my body warm with faulty drinks.

Sometimes I walk into some shady desolate

neighbourhood hoping I will catch a 

stray bullet just to paint the snow in scarlet,

but nothing ever happens on  evenings like 

this, no belligerents, no lovers, not even 

my favorite dogs to protect me from

 the sun, rain and the hail- 

just me and the faces of all

the ones I loved; yes that...

I don't recall the ones who loved me.