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…
There is a smell in my room
Which I notice only after returning to it
After some time.
It might be
Those unwashed clothes,
Piss on the tiles,
A dead rat.
But why do I care?
We all do things to show others.
We clean our rooms
To show others it doesn’t smell.
But who will come into my room
Except me?
And the smell has been there
For a long time-
So long, that it might not be
Unwashed clothes,
Piss on the tiles,
A dead rat.
It might be me,
Rotting away within myself.
Not bathing the body,
Not wearing perfume.
Not bathing the soul,
Not searching if I even have a soul,
If I can still love,
If I can still look at the willows
As a beautiful creation,
Rather than a poor thing made to die,
Like me,
Like all of us.
Can I still look at a child
And smile?
Can I still look at a kitten near the rubbish bin
And ache?
Can I still look at someone
And make my soul believe
That they too have problems?
Can I feel anything?
Anything
Again?
Anything other than
This stink around me,
Coming from me.
Can I feel
Anything else
At all?
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