The rain is loud now, As if a giant feet arises from the clouds To step on the river under the bridge of my heart And disturb it in such a way That the sails of ships bend, And the water touches the bridge from below, Tickling it to sorrow… The rain is loud now, But actually, it has always been like this. You were there once, And I never felt it. But now, All there is Is this sorrow That tickles me from inside, As if it wants me to laugh, Yet doesn’t let me At the same time…
A woman sat down near me in the train.
She had a baby.
It spat at me,
Pinched me,
Pulled my hair;
And the mother apologized for it all.
I said it was okay
And kept looking at the little devil
Trying to throw away the cloth that wrapped it;
Trying to be free.
It pointed a finger at me
And said many things
Even the mother didn’t seem to understand.
Ha.
And I call myself a poet.
This is true poetry;
Coming from the best poet I'd ever listened to.
Yes, the baby was a true poet:
Only it knows what it truly means
By anything.
Only it knows what it says when it points a finger
At me.
Yet I feel something,
Yet I feel like it likes me,
Like it enjoys my company,
Like it wants to tell me
Something small
In a smaller way,
Like it wants to tell me something
It has learned so far.
My soul understands that something
Even though I can’t say it.
That's what a poet really should do.
I write crap
And I still call myself a poet.
But this is true poetry.
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