Friends

Each day I ask myself, what am I doing?
According to the world, I have friends.
I have the treasures of heaven.
The same friends for whom I would give my life.

But the same friends, when I call them,
No answer ever comes.
Or a call that says, “Let’s meet up,” never comes.
Or the day when our paths may meet—it never comes.
It’s like a stone was handed to them.

Throw it wherever you want.
It feels no hurt. It has no heart.
And when it fulfills its purpose
Throw it again, wherever you want.

By chance, when some friend invites me
The people look at me like wolves eyeing a sheep.
They speak their thoughts from their eyes to me.
They say it so loud: “Who invited him? Who is he?”

Like a radio left turned on becoming white noise
My voice to them is like a disrupted frequency.
So much hate, yet I return again to lick the boot.

I try to look at the moon; maybe he will hear me.
I try to look at stars; maybe they witness me.
I tell them my tales of heart; I say to them, “You’re my friend.”
I hear sometimes air whispering to me, “I am here.”

I look at the world and how it keeps moving forward.
But when it’s my time to look for a path
No path ever appears, no stair ever appears.
That’s how the world moves forward and leaves me behind.

No eyes ever weep for me.
No heart ever grows sad for me.
Shadow, you’re for yourself.
No aid is coming for you.

So either bleed until the blood is drained
Or bandage yourself before it’s too late.
You may hold everyone in your heart.
But not everyone has the heart for you.