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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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Poetry is a gift

 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.


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