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Loud Rain

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…
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The best poet

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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