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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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Should I write a love poem, a life poem, or death poem today?

 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 about,

To put it shortly.

So skip her.

Should I write

A love poem,

Life poem,

Or death poem today?

This apple needs a knife in it

To make juices flow.

This fish needs its bowl broken

To escape down the drain.

This grass is too comfortable for me.

Maybe I should sit on a stove

And burn my behind

So that I’ll feel the pain

To write about it.

Maybe I should

Go to a funeral, poke my eyes and cry,

And hope I feel bad

So that I can write.

All this comfort

Is too much for me.

Maybe I’ll sit here uninspired

And write a poem about being uninspired,

Without any inspiration.

And it'll be the best crap I’ve ever written.

Maybe I should....

Oh..

Wait...


Did I just write a poem?






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