i saw the sun beating down
over the rooftops
and i watched the river flow
i stood at the watchtower
and wondered
where the currents go
and as the river flowed
and the wind blew
it didn’t matter which way
as long as it knew
and people disagreed with others
and words tasted like lies
others drowned in the blues
of those who couldn’t say goodbye
and the fog kissed the ocean
under the bridge
and the currents laid low
and i stood at the watchtower
and wondered
where people go.
you ask
how I write poetry.
those words that
rhyme together in an
unusual way that
stays, with you
and the ones getting
wet in their rain.
there’s no secret, darling.
these words
and their poetry that
you claim to see
is not even real.
the only poetry
I believe
I ever saw was in
your wild hair, hypnotizing
its audience in the
wild wind ampitheatre
and in your
eyes, when you look
at me, and
smile.
hundreds of equations
thousands of words
a million contradictions
fact and so-called fiction
but only
a tiny idea
where in
all this
i fit, with
your jazz.
i drank poetry today.
the dripping speck
of its black ink
invited my enticing taste buds
to grab a sip from the
hot, steamy brew
of words
dreaming together like
the arctic bay breeze.
i brought it closer
to the horizon
of my eyes, and wished
upon myself
the fortunes of
no bias, and lies.
even though the truth
was bitter as
her sly smile, it was
still the truth, in
every word and line.
i drank poetry today.
or
maybe it was just
coffee.
I want to write,
to create,
raw words, and unorthodox sentences.
weird, but honest to my core
literature.
and to be able to
look myself in the eye
after I’d done it.
after I’m done writing
about myself.
how am i supposed to write words down
when words no longer feel real
when everything the heart says
feels like a trickery
of those apathetic words
breathing is my new language
one that has always been
unacknowledged.
the translation, the pitch
the heave, the thrill
the profoundness.
it has it all.
moans like a saxophone
joyful like trumpets
rhymes, like jazz
i play the tune
across your body
each spot I touch
hits a new note
creating new vocabulary.
I live those words.
I breathe those words.
Those words, your words, made me feel I was never alone.
They made me feel that there’s someone out there for me.
Your words were honest with me
and I was honest with your words.
Reading them, knowing how you felt, how you were lonely sometimes, and afraid too, but always standing up, the way you looked at the world, felt its color, smelled its textures, and sounds, I felt your thoughts, hopes, desires and dreams.
I felt I was thinking and feeling and dreaming with you.
I dreamed of what you dreamed of, and wanted what you wanted.
And then I realized,
that truly
I just wanted
you.
poets
are fools
until
they are kings.
because,
in the end
their words
live longer than kingdoms.
once in a while
i pick up
and blow away the dust
off the wooden
masterpiece
that those 6 strings
are.
its another world
with different sounds
rhyming
singing, creating
moods and colors
of life
which words can’t.
a tweak
here and there
once in a while
a tap
picking up strings
fingers flirting
soul dancing
and
mind together
at one place.
its all fine.
i blow the dust
aside
but in the end
i’m blown
away.
Life in a blog 