Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 I ran so far That I feel a pulse everywhere. I ran so far That I've become the heart itself. I think no more Because it has given me nothing, I reason no more Because it has given me nothing. But the heart has given me Raw humanity, Poetry, A girl; At least beautiful fantasies about one. My heart used to beat Behind a frosted glass window Within myself. But now it has thawed And I see it clearly. I saw that it was scarred; That it was leaking blood. It gave me pain, And learning to tolerate the pain Has given me so much pleasure.

 Feet with shoes neatly tied, Kept touching each other, With a flower nearby. There is an instinct to crush it. But I resist And look at the dew glittering, The stalk sticking out, The red lines on yellow petals. I resist And watch the wind move it away from my feet, Afraid of the animal in me. I am also human, But they don’t see it. I am also capable, But they don't see it. They see an old jug, And keep it in the museum For eyes that fake appreciation To show others they are ‘cultured’. They keep it in the museum, Forgetting it is still useful. They saw me become an animal once And I kept being an animal forever Inside them.

 There is a straw in the glass. But there is no juice. There is a straw in the glass, Never removed, As if it was kept there to suck up air; As if the air in the glass is somehow different. There is so much absurdity; Threads of so many different colours through the hole On the same needle. There is so much absurdity, That logic is useless. That's why We have art, That's why We have those friendly lads with tattoos, Doing crazy stuff on a packed road. That's why We have mystery, Poetry, The dry leaf that balances on the rim of the bin Without falling in or out. They build systems, They build roads That claim to reach places. We have tried to curb the absurdity And failed miserably. We have tried And realized we shouldn’t try. We have tried And learned to embrace the different, The poetic, The absurd. There is a beauty in it.

 I look at the world with sleepy eyes And see wild horses run over the ocean. I look at the world with sleepy eyes And see fire wet things. I look at the world with sleepy eyes And see clouds in the sand, Footprints in the sky. I'm sleepy, I'm dreamy And I see so much more Than the others see. And the therapists say I've something. But the rest of the people are nicer; At least, They only say you're mad. I'm sleepy, I'm dreamy. But I don’t hurt anyone, I don't drag anyone to my mad world; At least not directly. But they have problems with me That I do not understand. They try to get rid of me For reasons I don’t understand. And it forces me to stay in my dream world For longer.

 I sit on a couch and watch the movie with the others. And they don't see it happen in me; I see a character play the violin And feel the pinches of my violin teacher on my shoulder. I see a perfect woman character and fall for her, And kick her out  When she does something stupid. I see a fight and I feel a pain that doesn’t exist; A pain none of the actors feel. Then the ads come, And my mind goes bullocks About the wounded dog I saw limp away, The football match I missed, The girl I met. They all play in my mind at the same time, Like many discs playing hits songs in the same room, Sounding like nothing but crap. But at least, It's less annoying Than the small talk I’ve to have with people.

 I began to understand you  Only after loosing you To the fire, The storm, The angry tides I understood you're Like chess Where a soldier knocks out a diagonal soldier Just because it's not the same colour; Like a clock Where gears of all sizes are needed To make a tick. Like a flower Called so for having petals, Like a hand Called so for having fingers, Like a shadow, A raindrop rolling down a peach, A ray of light, A lens, The mist between the hills.

 I stood on the grass And my shadow fell on a yellow flower With a ladybug on its petals. There was a marker in my hand That I stole from someone's desk. I stood on the grass In the morning When the sunlight makes the dew on the mead Glitter like the ocean. I stood on the grass And forgot for a moment That I was sitting there alone With no socks And a hole in my shoe. I smiled at the flower Like I was possessed, And those passing by stared at me; At the young man with frizzy hair Who has lost his mind. There was a man selling balloons to the children. I called a little girl towards me. “How do I look?” I asked, smiling. She took the marker from me And drew something on the balloon Before giving it to me. There was a sad face on the balloon; The lips turned downward. I looked at it And smiled even more. It was pretty to look at. So I took it home. Now I don’t know where I lost it. A Date I Made Up In My Mind I know I've told you nothing, And I don’t know if you know I exist. But...

 A clean cloth Dipped in water Can remove dirt. A dirty cloth Dipped in water, Can do the same. They say, We are what we do to others. We are good If we do others good. We are bad If we do others bad. They don't realise that A dirty cloth When dipped in water Can remove dirt. The clean will become dirty The dirty will become dirtier. There will be no difference between the two. The cloth well used Cannot remain clean. It should be dirty. Then washed. Dirty. Then washed. Dirty. Then washed. Until it tears And has to be thrown away. Innocent creatures We bring new creatures into the world And make them see things they shouldn’t; A bug squished on a wall Painted for the first time, A microwave  heating until it catches fire, A man and a woman Breaking empty bottles on each other's heads While the creature in the blue cloth Cries, Cries, And cries. That's the moment it realises  That no one cares; That's the moment it realises Crying is a solitary act. That’s the moment it ...

 I can write poetry Because I am baffled by my thoughts, Like a child Baffled on seeing the moon in daylight For the first time. I can write poetry When a topic is given. But it would be as fake As a conversation with a friend When my parents are around. I can write poetry Only thinking of myself; Thinking how it would free me From pain, From angst, From too much happiness That makes me awkward. I can write poetry, And I will write poetry Because it is a mirror for my soul to look into, To make sure it is in right shape. Poetry Is no escape. It is looking at our shattered lives And writing it down For all to see. Poetry Is terrifying, Because people Look into the well of your soul And drink water from it, Expecting it To never go dry.

 Night, Lamps, The stones on the ground gleam. A street  like it was taken out of Sherlock Holmes' London; And we walk on it, Hand in hand, Hands getting cold, Wanting to look at each other and look away at the same time. Our hearts pound And our lips don’t shape words. Nothing happens, But this moment fills me. Nothing happens like I expected, But this moment is giving me so much. A bird pecks at the window of my heart, There is straw emptying my soul. Yet I feel full, And I know you feel the same too; Like this moment cannot end. We have only our crappy lives to return to When it ends. This moment is both beautiful and ugly; Like black ink splashing on white paper. This moment is both alarming and easing; Like an alarm clock. This moment is a bright sunrise That makes the tiny birds stick out amid the colour. But I don’t want it to rise further. Why can’t it stay?

 If you choose money over everything else, Don’t write. If you choose some thing, feeling or person over writing, Don’t write. If you read only one poet and think you understand poetry, Don’t write. If you enjoy Charles Bukowski's novel ‘Pulp', Don’t write. If you need beer, a cigar, or caffeine to put a word down, Don’t write. If you want to make a living writing, Don’t write. If you write only love poems and you write for someone other than yourself, Don’t write. If you don’t have the courage to offend someone, Don’t write. If you think you have to write something inspirational when you're not inspired, just to please someone, Don’t write. If you are not prepared to face your family's wrath, Don’t write. If you consider anything or anyone above writing, Don’t write. If you feel too empty, Don’t write. If you feel too full, Don’t write. If it is not a therapy to get things off your back, Don’t write. If you're not honest to your feelings, Don’t write. If it’s diffi...

 The world isn’t a happy place, But neither is it sad. Life throws apples at us; We can run, Get hit, Or catch them to take a bite. There is no love or hate; There are just the apples And the heavy stones. There is no love or hate; There is only what we do With what comes our way. And what comes our way Has no purpose; It's aim isn’t you. It hits the sunlight, The butterflies, Silent heroes And loud fools. It hits what stands in the way. The world isn’t a happy place, But neither is it sad. The wind that does not rest keeps the child's kite dancing; The boy smiles and the wind smiles back. The sun that burns away makes the world smile, And the sun smiles back. There is a blur in sadness; A character in the hieroglyphics we cannot understand. There is a blur in sadness That makes one understand oneself. And when one understands oneself long enough, One laughs at life. And the laughter makes us forget about the wounds, The scars, The stones coming our way. And we laugh at life un...

 Maybe you've not met someone Who'll take their eyes off you the moment you look back. Maybe you've not met someone Who'd rather text viciously rather than talk. Maybe you've never been touched on the shoulder gently And called your name. Maybe your soul burns and your heart cries For such a person. Do not despair. This loneliness is a pandemic, And everyone suffering from it thinks they are alone. Maybe someone like you, Who's stuck between fire and a burning thing; Between walls, Between hate and not being cared Will find you. Maybe someone like you, Who sleeps hugging a teddy bear Will be hugged by someone like you. Wait Before you build a shell around your shell. Wait Before you jump into the fire you ignited yourself. Wait For that person to come. And if they don’t come, You'll go to them. The world has as many lovers as haters. They just hide in the shadows and wait.

 A steaming cup of tea  On the hand of the couch, Two kittens asleep on a cushion Hugging each other, A radio playing Tchaikovsky, The rain reciting poetry from the roof; Could it get any better than this. There are things to do, Things to worry about, Poems to write, Memories to kill before they kill time. But for a moment, There is nothing but all this. It makes one feel what is really needed. It makes one know what is required for happiness. We look for sweaters And stand on a stool and look over the closet Before opening  it. How dumb! This is all we need in life. But we try to convince ourselves that we need so much more.

 I'm an inexperienced artist with too much paint on my hands, I'm a new fisherman letting go of all the big catches. Yet I try to paint, Yet I try to fish; Like a cupid without arrows Throwing his bow instead, Like a fish in the gull's mouth Hoping to see water again. The canvas looks prettier without me painting on it, The fishermen catch more without me on the team. Yet I try to paint, Yet I try to fish. I painted what seemed like a splash of random colours And threw it into the bin. They found it from the bin and called it abstract art. I used a net instead of a rod And they made fun of me. But some of them used it And called me a genius. I smiled And walked to my room and laughed As hard as I could.

 You are  A camera waiting to capture the perfect sunrise, An umbrella going up in the wind, Red eyes, A splash of ink. You are A typewriter, A finch, A leaf falling into an open book. You are all these and so much more. The park benches wait, The path waits. The wind kicks out ugly leaves from the path For you specifically. You are a light, a gift, an aura. You are marvellous As the mountain peaks that roar. You are marvellous As the twittering birds. You are marvellous. You are you.

 I read some poets and fall in love with them. Fire burns the page And butterflies fly off it to save themselves. Tribes hunt tigers, Tigers hunt tribes. The child weeps, The Grecian urn is not limited by logic or time. In poetry Anything is possible. Poetry is for the simple, The maintaining, The partially demented. Poetry Is for those who don’t think too much. Poetry  Is for those who love the journey more than the destination. Because there is no destination; No conclusion, Except for the ones the English teachers create. Poetry Is for those who love The uncertain, The horrible. Poetry Is a gift given to mad people Like us.

 Many butterflies have sat on the same branch. The same ink has made literate many papers. But you are not like other butterflies, You are not like other words. You can’t fly, You can’t be read. Yet you're marvellous. One doesn’t need to see the laces to confirm it's a shoe, One doesn’t need to see it break to realize it's glass. There are many butterflies, Many words weird and wonderful. But you're different. This butterfly can’t be caught in nets, This word can’t be written down Or spoken Or shown. It can only be felt In the heart as an irregular pulse, In the throat like a strangling slab of rock, In the soul as poetry Before it becomes word.

 I can’t help it. My mind is a naughty child Who swallowed something he shouldn’t have. Now that child walks around, Puking everywhere what it swallowed. It's like having a cloud with words written on it Above one's head, Like in the comics. I can’t help it. Everyone reads my mind without trying. It's a naked fountain in Greece, Pissing as long as it lasts. I can’t help it. Others cant help it. Everything shows on my face. I guess I should live with it.

 Come to me like fireflies in the dark So I may catch you in a bottle And look at you forever With green light in my eyes. Come to me like the wind on a calm day at sea So I may steer this ship to the port And never get on it again. Come to me like fire trying to stay alive On a piece of wood in the snow, Like grass through a cracked wall, Like an empty bottle of wine thought to be full, Ignored by the waiter. I just want to meet you again. I know That it's like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle With a leaf for a missing piece, Like trying to create railway tracks By driving trains in the desert. It just doesn’t work. I kick the door and hurt my feet, I jump into the water and drown. I kiss in my dreams And dance alone in a room, Pretending like Tchaikovsky plays in the background. Sometimes they knock and I don’t answer, Sometimes they tell and I don’t open the door. I must  be sleeping. Yes. And I wait for you to kiss me, Dance with me, Awaken me. I am asleep.

 We are all cell phones Used by the angels in God’s control room. They use us to make calls with the universe. Some of them are careful To charge us often. Some of them exhaust the battery And let us die. Some of them plug us in After making it to zero. Some of us wake up again, And some don’t. When we can no longer be charged, They throw us away. And god gives them new ones. It takes time to set up these new ones (Approximately 18 years). But when they use us, They use us until we die; Until our screens blink, And we load a webpage about the world For the last time.

 I used to play the piano, But I loved it so much That I hate it now. There was nothing I couldn’t do on it. There was no challenge, No oar-less boat, No fire To part the mist. Then someone asks to teach them. And I see my boat approach the waterfall. Not having touched it, Not able to play it. I sit down Again, Falling in love with it Again. The river's calm. My fingers fall softly, Like drops from a twig That tickle the water. I'll love it for sometime Until I become good at it Again.

 They kill us and take our skulls To place on thick books that won’t close otherwise, They hang the swings too low So only kids will sit on them. They shatter mirrors And the heads of statues. They take clothes off clotheslines And leave the clips there. They see a hand sinking into the bog And do nothing. What if The hand chokes them to death? What if The hand doesn’t want to be saved? They stare elsewhere, Like they're seeing the Sistine chapel from the inside, Like they're looking at the pyramids; No longer a pretty sight to look at. People see And people hear And people shout from their houses At the news on TV. But that's all that happens. When someone is shattered, Burnt, Going down in a bog, They scream. But that's all that happens.

Hope is a hill; We can walk down faster than we can climb. Hope is a light At the end of a tunnel that might close with falling rocks Before we reach it. Hope isn’t a rainbow through a grey cloud. It is a rainbow Where there shouldn’t be one. Hope is luck, But it isn’t easy to get. One must search for it, Like all things in life. And the hope to begin the search Should be created by us alone. And the hope to search for hope Should start from us. Then it goes on, Getting bigger and bigger Like a descending snowball. Then it goes on On it's own. A forest burns from the fire coming from a single tree, More than one arrow can be shot at the same time from the same bow. Hope is luck, Hope exists. But to see it, One must know misery, One must visit the burned forest of one's heart To awe at the vastness of the land. One must earn hope To see it.

 Why do we lock our souls And say the world is against us? Why do we prick our hearts And demand the world to heal it? We have obeyed society Long enough. We have done ‘what's right' Long enough. We should be what we are. They try to paint coins gold  And increase their value, They try to shoot blindfolded, And end up shooting an innocent bird, Trembling as the spirit leaves it. They have ‘given' us enough; Now we should give back. They have shot us enough; Now we shouldn’t come down to the trees. The light doesn’t find us, The darkness doesn’t know us, And the ocean doesn’t remember us Even if we drown in it. “Then why live?” They ask. And the question pricks our heart. We live for the world, And have forgotten to live for ourselves. We live for the world, And stick to groups and social norms And complain about the broken cup that never fills up. It is painful That we live for the world too much. It is painful That we live for Our nation, presidents, our politicians, our p...

 There's a cupid in you That takes aim for too long. There's a cupid in you That fails to shoot. It’s a statue of the cuddly god. Where is it? Where did you bury the real cupid That once struck me? Why did you burn his wings And lock him up within yourself? Maybe he was flying too fast, Maybe he was shooting too many people. But you could just have given him a single arrow And let him go. Instead, You buried him. But he still sits there in this cell called you, Strumming the single string on his bow To make music. But he still sits there in this cell, Hoping you'll open it someday. Let him go. He does not even have wings anymore; So he can’t fly to heaven. It is earth that needs him. Let him out.

 The bartender had an anchor tattooed on his shoulder, And a body; The finest of Rodin's works. He is a social connector, A dumping ground for everyone's mental crap. They cut their pencils and drop the wood on him. And he takes it Without complaining, Like any dustbin having space. The bartender pours Beer, Wine, Water. Everything but the water will have more foam than needed. Everything but the water will not be what they ordered. But it doesn’t matter. They don’t come to the bar to drink. They come to the bar To find excuses to talk with this young fellow; The best human, The greatest listener, The true perceiver who doesn’t judge. They come here for the man. But they take the beer for confidence To open their mouths to him.

 Angels with drooping blue wings Sit on empty graves, Watching over the void, The names under which nothing lies, The flower growing through a crack in the rock; Life growing from death. Grass with thorns will spring out as well, Disorder Like untamed hair, And crush the flowers. There is a wildness to an old grave, Just like the man whose name is written on it. There is a wildness to an old grave, That comes out from us; All of us Only after we die. We can’t live when we're alive. There is always rules, And society, Privacy, Temperance, Good touch, Bad touch. We can’t live when we're alive, But no one judges the dead. We are free to live through the grass To express our wildness. And it's okay if they don’t understand. Those who understand Will ponder over it forever, Like I’m doing now.

 I'm afraid to talk to people who read my poems. They try to dig me up For the ‘true meaning' of things. When will they learn? Each word, sentence, action Stands for an emotion. People use their heads too much. It's so heavy, They can’t even hold it up to think anymore. And those who think Don’t think enough. Their veins don’t throb, They've forgotten to shiver Like a bluebird with an arrow through the chest. They've forgotten to gasp for air Like the fish in a shattered bowl. They've forgot to embrace pain. They're too scared of it. But the earth has seen enough blood to not care anymore. The tribesman has shot enough arrows not to miss the bluebird anymore. They just don’t feel it. If poetry can’t make one ignore one's logic; If poetry can’t make one feel the heart beat in one's head, I don’t know what will. Such people can’t be helped.

 A black wall. Rebels sticking posters Over the ‘stick no bills' sign. Rebels sticking posters. Rebels ripping off posters. Yet a part of it Remaining. These posters Are like the rainbow; Pretty on it’s own, Yet making the hillsides ugly Because it doesn’t fit the scene. Rebels throwing bottles Of rum, Of wine, Of Cola; None of them full. No one has the courage to do so. These posters Are like the rainbow; Pretty on it’s own.  Yet making the hillsides ugly Because it does not fit the scene...

 I see streets Flashing in dull neon lights; Flashing like they would fall asleep. Jazz pours out From some bar, Club, budding musician. It is a therapy To look down from a tall building At night And see this, Hear this. There is something in the absence, Something in the boisterous silence Of a never-sleeping city. It clears the mind To realize That such dull light Is enough. It clears the mind To realize That such music Is enough. We don’t want what we think we want. What we really want Is this; A view From the top of a tall building, To realize We have all we need.

 A helpless pal by-hearting the constellations To impress his girl on a romantic night. A musician who plays on the street from dawn to dusk, Because he'd rather feel tired than hungry. A child in his mother's arms Needing more than her milk, Crying aloud Crying aloud. Don’t you hear it? Don’t you feel like going to her And saying something comforting, Doing something worthwhile? Why so we all lie to ourselves? We have yet to acknowledge our hearts Again our own internal mirrors. We have yet to keep those mirrors clean In the first place, Or search if it is still there, Waiting. We blame leaders when they milk our money, We blame systems we created ourselves. We try to spit at the ugly And end up spitting at the walls we created around ourselves. Isn’t it sad? We light our wings on fire to show our valour And end up as ash. We blame and we spit at everything but ourselves. The state of the world is everyone's fault, And its change of state Is everyone's responsibility.

 A cup of tea with a floating white flower, Orange light through trees, Dew on twigs. Could there be a better morning than this? Walking through the forest alone, Yet not feeling lonely. Sitting in a cabin alone, Yet not feeling suicidal. I hear the raven on a high branch And I laugh. We are beggars asking for too much Than what we need. Isn’t this, A forest, a cabin, a cup of tea Enough? Isn’t this all we need to not feel lonely. We don’t need people To make us happy. They have their own crap To not be happy about. All we need is this beauty, This belonging, A continuous conversation without words, Without awkwardness, Without fear. A cup of tea with a floating white flower, Orange light through trees, Dew on twigs. Could there be a better morning than this Ever?

 A man lies in his bed Sweating, Yet not doing anything about it. A man lies in his bed, Unable to do anything else, As if there’s a cinder block on his chest; As if there is no reason for him to get up. The cinder block is all he feels And feeling it numbs him. He is strong enough to lift it out of his chest. But no. What if another block falls on him?; A bigger one. So he doesn’t let go Of the cinder block. So he doesn’t allow Freedom to exist, And claims he is being suffocated By forces he cannot control.

 They make us work for them And they try to take our souls, Like a crocodile turning a dead deer To rip out flesh. They make us work for them, So that they become rich With our work. They take the boats, They take the oars, And make us swim in trembling waters where fish die. They take our boats, They take our oars, And reach there before us. And they say  We did not work enough. And they say We have to build better boats. But maybe we shouldn’t. Because they'll take those boats too And do the same.

 Pull this out of the fire With bear hands, And let it roll down your arms Gently like honey drops. Pull this out of the fire, But don’t wait for the pain to go away. It never will, It never has for anyone. In this pain, Try to look into a Rorschach ink blot. In this pain, Try to interpret what it means. You'll get nothing. The eyes see the pain, The ears hear the pain, The skin feels the pain. Pain unites the senses. It is a language All senses understand. It is a language That makes you forget yours, Wipes your mind clean. The Rorschach Will mean nothing to you. You see only pain. And everyone judges you when you’re in pain Without knowing that you are drowning, That you're being consumed into your own bog. Maybe they should remove the Rorschach And lend a hand. Maybe they should keep quiet And help.

 They say They create windows of opportunity. They create windows; Windows between rooms, Windows that can be opened From both sides. They create windows; Windows that only give the opportunity To look at the other person. They say We should learn from each other. But there is nothing to be learned, Because people are nicer When being watched. We act nice. We keep acting nice Until everyone goes mad. And they'll say we haven’t used The opportunities they'd given us. They know That windows should face the outside world. We did not realise this Before we went mad. Now we are mad And no will listen if we say The windows made us mad.

 You're a party, Tea with sugar, The smell of an old book; One of those things I say I love Even if I don’t know I do or not. But I know I don’t hate you. You have scarred my heart But I don’t feel the difference. You have scarred my heart, But you scarred it the least. So I do not hate you. That's the best I can do; Not hating. A scarred heart fears love Because love was the only thing that has hurt it. A scarred heart fears love. So I can't love you. But I do not hate you. So be happy, Smile.

 Children jumping on couches Together. Adults jumping on couches Alone. So no one will see them. Adults jumping on couches Because  They couldn’t jump on couches As children. Growing up in households With chairs of wood With no cushions. Forced To behave a certain way, To dress up a certain way, To play only after studies. Never completing studies. Never free. Never free. Forced to be an adult All their lives. Adults jumping on couches. Alone. So no one will see them. Because if they do, They'll not call it childhood. They'll call it Madness. 

 Night; An old man sitting outside an old house, Raindrops running down car windows, A leaf-less tree. Clothes wanting to fly off clotheslines; No one coming to take them. Loneliness Is a beautiful thing. It happens when things come together Without minding each other. Loneliness Is a beautiful thing. It is the orange peel dropped outside the rubbish bin, The shoes looked at but never worn, Light through a closed window. Loneliness Is a beautiful thing. It is the old man sitting outside the old house, Looking into the night To see nothing. Loneliness Is a beautiful thing That should last.

 There are people Who clean toilets  They can never sit on And they don’t have it  In their houses Because  There are no houses  For them There are people Who bathe in hot showers Too hot for the skin But they feel nothing Because the inside burns Much more There are people Who feel proud To walk into a store And buy oats It is one of their Two great achievements The other Is getting out of bed There are people Who feel proud To sleep till noon It is one of their Two treasured moments The other Is falling asleep In the first place There are people Who stay in, Not going to parties, Watching porn Because it is the only thing That makes them feel Anything Even if that ‘anything’ Is their own sorrow Their own shattered selves There are people Sitting naked Beside running taps In their bathrooms Crying Having no strength To bath Having no strength To put something on Alone Afraid of Their own selves

 Dead leaves in the trash can, Wet in rain, Rotting under juice packets, Plastic covers, A leftover sandwich. People spitting into it, Dogs lifting their legs. But there are flowers; Pretty flowers All around it. Pretty flowers That go ignored, Pretty flowers no one will pick Because they were spat on, Pissed upon. They've become the can itself. No one will want them. But it makes them grow, It makes them stay, It makes them bloom Again and again. They are not wanted, So they are not used, And they are not destroyed.

 I walk on empty railroads With a bleeding heart in my hand, So that when the train comes, I can leave it on the tracks and run. It is dying slowly, Leaking juice. Why so much pain? Why the slowness? I just want to finish it fast. It is better not to have a heart That to carry one around that bleeds. People can see the blood And they complain When it falls on them. People can see the blood And never ask where it comes from. People can see the blood And they are tired of wiping the floors where I walk. They want me out of everywhere. They don’t like to see my heart die like this, Slowly, Troubling them in the process. So I walk on empty railroads, Leave my heart there And wait for it.

 We do so much to be remembered But we don’t do it right. A falcon in flames does not burn the sky; It just kills itself. Lines in water do not stay. But we set ourselves on flame And jump into the river. And the river will forget us. There will be no rock, Curve, Depression in the water where we fall. We should set ourselves on flame And run for the forest, So the dead trees will remember us. And we should draw our lines On rocks. Rocks erode And new trees spring up in the dead forest. We can’t be remembered forever. But we can be As long as the rocks stay And the trees stay dead. But we can be For a long time.

 A single dry leaf On the park bench. I sat on it before the wind could take it away. I heard it creak. What have I done? The wind could have taken it places, But I wanted the leaf to stay. I wanted the leaf to stay Because I loved it. I wanted to look at it; To smell it, To know its kind, To see its broken ribs. I love you, So stay away from me. Or I might crush you under me And not let you fly With the wind. Stay away from me Because I love you, And my love can destroy you. So let me love you From afar Through letters, Through photographs. I’ll let you go with the wind Even if you don’t love me Through letters, Through photographs; Because the wind Brings more than one dry leaf. But it also takes away every single one Until I sit on them. But no. I love you more than others. So I don’t care you stay with me. But I care you be happy Always. So don’t love me through hugs, kisses. Love with With smiles, Photographs, Letters. Love me From afar.

 Sunlight falling through the exhaust On a broken bucket in the bathroom, The river roaring while it falls, A lad looking through a telescope at the house of a girl Who never comes out; Desolate, Going nowhere. Or so it seems. The sun will rise higher, And search for symmetric tiles. The river calms down, The boy will knock at the girl's door. The sun will light the fields And creep down through thick leaves, The river will reach the sea And meet more rivers, The boy will take the girl out for a coffee In a warm cafe with warm jazz And cool rain pouring outside. There will be more light, More water, More times together. The clouds may block the light, But the light will come. Rocks may bar the way, But the river will reach the sea. It will be awkward, But the boy and girl will kiss. Life is beautiful

 I will be discovered When I'm dead; A dragon fly frozen in the amber of poetry. I will be discovered When I'm dead; And they'll try to study me But cutting me out of the amber, And fail. Because they'll think the amber and me Are separate entities. They'll think They can study it separately. But no. They cut off petals to study flowers, They cut off wicks to study candles, And they cut off humans to study isolation. And they never get the big picture. They fail miserably. And yet they try Like trying to fill a flute with water, Ruining the instrument Without filling it. And yet they keep trying, Because what if there is no better way? What if there is no way? I’ll be discovered When I’m dead. And I hope they study me correctly.

 I look down this valley And see the mist hide the river. I look down this valley And see the flowers blur to purple the mist. The river cries And bubbles gather and pop around rocks. The river cries And I know it is the river without seeing it. I look down this valley And feel I'm looking into myself. I don’t see the chaos in me, But i know what it is all about. But those people who do not know about the river Freak out on hearing this sound Seemingly coming from nowhere. And they blame it On ghosts, The forest, My madness. They look into me And get stuck in their own maze of mirrors. They look into me And get trapped in a world Where nothing makes sense. They'll get it Only after I put it on paper. They'll get it Only after I tell them about The forest, The flowers, The river. They are too afraid to explore, They are too afraid to know the chaos Behind my smiling face. And let them be scared So that they never get to know me. Let them be scared So that they'll want to...

 They praise my poetry, But they just don’t get it. They praise my poetry, As if I sit down and try hard, As if I squeeze it out and it drips from me Like an orange from a juice commercial. No. I create nothing. There is an anthology in me; Complete and unabridged. There is an anthology in me, And I just rip out what I want. There are So many conflicts, So much rusted iron, So many broken bulbs in me. They praise my poetry. But that’s all they see. That's all they see, Because I’m afraid they’ll hate me If I show them more.

 Everyone Wants to be the chain around the bull's feet, The ship with iron sails; Iron men, Iron women. But they don’t see the ocean we are all in. Whatever it is made up of, It is an ocean. And iron in the ocean Will sink. The chain may be strong, The sails may not have a single dent in them. But they sink. It does not matter whether it's broken or not. Everything that sinks Is broken No matter how perfect. So be less strong; Not too less but a little bit. Be wood, But not the paper that comes from it. Be wood, So that a hole in you Won't make you sink.

 I look at the blue hills and see so much more. I see lamps hanging outside houses, Blinking at the night like sleepy eyes. I see the moon caught up in the bowl of trees That make a crown for the hills. A bat, A moth, A train going by in its silent loudness. I look at the blue hills and see so much more Than darkness. I look at the blue hills And feel like missing something I never had; Feeling something new; The humbleness of being small. I look at the blue hills Taking up space Like sumo wrestlers standing with half-bend knees. I look at the blue hills And see so much more than the hills themselves.

 I try my best to understand you, But you think I don’t understand. I try my best to understand you, But you cannot be put into a cage of words. You're a piece of abstract art, Squares, Lines that seem to make no sense. You're a piece of abstract art; A sculpture only consisting of a metal rod, A headless man, A urinal in a museum Kept upside down And called art. You're abstract art And I understand you. I feel the beauty in the squares and lines and metal rods. But it is too much for words. It is like capture wind In a cage. It does not like being defined And I know it. I understand you But I cannot put you Into a cage of words.

  I am happy to be loved. But if you see the glass paper weight Placed on the script of my life, Will you break it? If you see the axe On the stump on my life, Will you throw it far away? I am happy to be loved. But no one will love me, Because the axe is hard to take out And the scripts are hard to find. I don’t know where they are. I lost them To the storm around me. Some people feel, But only feel themselves. Some people think, But only think about others. You belong to the second. If you like this stump so much, Imagine how much you would have loved the tree. But it doesn’t exist. I cut it down a long time ago, Because birds dropped their eggs And blamed me; Because the ants tickled me as they ran up. But I miss it all. I miss it all now. Maybe a new tree will grow. But only admire it from the roots, Because you'll fall off my branches And blame me.

 The roaring waves hit the rocks and shy back as humble foam. The sinking sun is tickling the waves And making them do naughty things, Like taking away one of my shoes. The roaring waves hit the rocks and shy back as humble form. And I feel proud to be a part of those rocks. I thought I'd miss you, But how wrong was I. Nothing is as calming as what I'm looking at now. Nothing is as calming as warm seawater between your toes; Warm seawater turning everything orange. I'm afraid to leave. If I do, You'll return to haunt my soul. If I do, Life will have me by the throat Again. But the sun has almost melted. There is only a faint bit, Trying so hard to look at me, Even the sea tries to drag it down; Unlike you Walking away, Unlike you Pretending you don’t notice. This sunset will end And I’ve to go back to my crappy life Again.

 The bad days were like molten iron. But they passed Like the blurring of lights after waking up That no one remembers. The bad days happened And more bad days happen. There is chaos only when the forest is on fire. But there is only one tree In me. And I burns alone Without burning anything else. There is only one tree In me And it burns, Spitting out fiery birds that take off to kiss the air that swallows them. There is only one tree In me, And it burns and collects as ash At the bottom of my heart. This ash is my pigment. I mix it with imagination And make ink to write.

 When is valentine's day? I typed into the internet. I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not the only one hating myself for it. It's Sunday that day And maybe I should ask her out. Or should I? Like someone said in some movie, This could be the end of a beautiful friendship. My eyes well up On seeing you glitter in diamond dust, Like a bare tree after a winter storm. And this winter storm Creates a power outage in me, And words don’t come, And it stings me like a hornet. We are players on a frozen lake Playing ice hockey, Passing the puck of love between us. But the goal post is approaching And someone should score. But should we date at all? Dating is like schooling; With benches and desks and students and lunch. Dating is like schooling; Systematic and fake. We police our inner demons And show ourselves as people of perfection, People of style. We police our inner demons And clap at bad acting in the play of life. They send rockets into space, They play violins for kings...

 Should I write A love poem, A life poem, Or death poem today? I ponder over this, Looking at the sunrise between hills of hope, Drinking the wine of futility, Puffing cigars of boredom. The sun is still behind those hills. And something comes up in me, Like a Neanderthal; Smart, yet not lasting. Thoughts flash like lightning That shakes the earth without much sound. Maybe I should write about the pandemic. But it does not come from the heart. Maybe I should write some motivation. But that too doesn’t come from the heart. The water shouldn’t leak through the branches Of a fallen tree. The water should collect long enough So that the tree will be washed away. Should I write A love poem, A life poem, Or a death poem today? Why don’t I write about that girl I met. No. For that, poetry is not enough. I’ll need a paragraph. But she's a dirty toilet always having the cover down When I’m urgent, Letting me pee everywhere else And making me feel guilty for a crime I know No one will know a...