“Miss Lonely Heart”

There is me…


I am a forsaken man of fifty-four.

Desolation is paramount, love is lore.

I stopped believing, so long ago,

that life had smiles beyond a photo.


My body aches and my joints are tight,

my hair is diminishing and so is my height.

I have a good job and plenty of Prozac.

Drugs don’t converse, money won’t love you back.


I have no lover and I have no friends.

My family and I will never make amends.

Life has stopped giving and is always taking,

The covenant is gone, my will is quaking.


And then there is Miss Lonely Heart…


Miss Lonely Heart lives upstairs.

Miss Lonely Heart gathers up cares;

scattered as stones on a stormy beach,

she’s sure to keep her anxieties in close reach.


I wondered if the previous tenant had died.

Then she laughed and the place was occupied.

Twas that summer night without precedence:

Miss Lonely Heart gave own lonely heart occupance.


I hear her laugh and I wonder why

she chooses to laugh while I prefer to cry.

I wonder who she is I wonder why she is this way.

I trust Miss Lonely Heart’s lonely heart and my cares drift away.


I hate that annoying laugh I hate to hear it so

(yet I lie when I say I miss that silence all those months ago).

She’s so annoying so imbecilic she’s so inane

(yet she calms my storm and quells my disdain).


Miss Lonely Heart shan’t live up to her name

because Miss Lonely Heart will always entertain.

Friends, lovers, whoever it is that she’s clinging to.

Some night it’s many voices, some nights just two.


Miss Lonely Heart is only home a few nights a week,

occasional refuge at her lovers’ places she’ll seek.

Thank God for quiet nights where I don’t hear her laugh (or moan).

When she’s not getting fucked she guffaws like a valley girl on the phone.


And then there is me…


I lament the upstairs mirth in full bloom.

All that amusement shakes my comfortable gloom.

“Oh God, shut the fuck up and respect neighbors”

(my manifest jealousy does the truth no favors).   


So why do I call her Miss Lonely Heart?

Because I found no truth in those laughs or moans from the start.

I think this ostensibly social creature is wearing the mask.

I want to help her; some choose the disguise, some the flask.


Perhaps she wonders about me, too.

“Why does the man below me never make a sound?”

Miss Lonely Heart, we are really the exact same.

My pain is silent, company of strangers gives yours a name.


Maybe I should be bold one day and try to meet her

(…though I may be old enough to be her father).

I am still the moron whose loneliness brews a daydream vignette.

We become so good at lying to ourselves when we’re truly desolate.


Maybe it’s finally meant to happen to me.

We’re all waiting on some earned victory.

I could knock on her door with flowers and ask to go for a walk.

Perhaps one day…one day we might talk.


And then there is Miss Lonely Heart…


It was a couple weeks later when Miss Lonely Heart quit life.

For some there are seldom solutions to a soul’s strife.

I heard her scream as she went down.

I heard the indescribable sound as she hit the ground.


I sprinted downstairs with the distress channels flowing.

I felt the cosmic rip in the connection I was too afraid of showing.

I got to her first, the onlookers spying from their balconies’ dark stillness.

The intrusive eyes of phone cameras making a spectacle of her mental illness.


She was perhaps thirty-five, more beautiful than I had ever imagined.

From God’s gold silk and soft hands she’d been fashioned.

In the dusk of the eve, and even in death,

she radiated resplendence without casting a breath.


Where are your “so called” friends and lovers now?

They should pay for their disingenuousness somehow.

Anger aside, I couldn’t save you all the same.

You didn’t know me, I didn’t even know your name.


And such is a sad truth, that I don’t love her.

Only in my mind do these facile dreams occur.

I hate my life and myself for feeling connected to you.

But, sometimes, we’ll embrace a spurious something to hold onto.


And then there is me…


Gone was Miss Lonely Heart, and the role she played.

She was at peace now; my status quo has remained.

We long to chase wind, endeavor to dampen the sun,

we eclipse our own vanities by focusing on something or someone.


I’ll wake up tomorrow at sixty and still not belong.

Eventually a new Miss Lonely Heart may come along.

How many days, how many years do we toil in vain?

We measure our days by broken promises – life remains the same.


Life remains the same.


Tony Blau Veldt, 06/24/2017


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