To start your mornings with
blood on your hands
smearing across pages
is
incriminating
and inspiring
And you must know
if you were to slice open
my veins would also
spill black fountain ink
If you were to sever my tongue
my hands would speak
for me
Go ahead and gouge my eyes
I can still see
And when I die I desire
to be cut as a cadaver
All the words visible
under paper-white skin
so they will know, too.
I do not aspire to be a skeleton
with brittle bones
I want blood
to pour with every pinprick
of a pilot pen pressed
on a page
But blood makes people squirm
Blood makes people gag
so I intend to
leave this world
with a crime scene behind me.
Let them shake and shudder
for they know not
the life they’ve lost
They live in fear of papercuts
and I carve myself open
again and again
And I will continue to
until I bleed out
and my ink dries up
If it sounds violent it’s
because it has to be
The world could use a
few more bloodstains
Makes it more uncomfortable
Makes it more interesting.

A place where it doesn't matter who I am
What words I put on the paper
How I feel or what I mean
Whether it be hidden or clear
I don't have to rhyme
Follow a strict set of rules
A place where I can get all my feelings out
It is like a yellow flower in the middle of a field of cotton plants
Unique in its own way
The only one of its kind
I don't have to worry about anything being right
because no matter what I write it right to me

It is a freeing art
An art where my tears can form words
and the sorrow and grief I am feeling can paint a picture to the reader
It can produce warmth like a fire on a winter's day
The delicate lace that shrouds my heart
when I am feeling most down
lets me to freely write how I am feeling without
the thought of another
It is one art that no matter what
Practice can never make perfect
It is something that is different to everyone
No matter how much one can try
There is no box to conform to

Stumbling upon this art years ago
I look back and smile
Thanking past me
for walking into that meeting
Seeing the faces around that table and taking a timid step forward
That little, timid, shy step is what unlocked this great art
In my life and for that I am thankful

I'm a poet already -
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?


I've got the power -
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they're followed up only by one.


I'm one, one of you -
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.


I'm no one anymore -
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.


You are a poet as well -
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.


We are a nation, mate -
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other's opinions sans dictums.


Tho, I'm your poet -
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.

Like sprinkling dust on the paper,
Moulding itself into mud;
Sound the words of the pauper,
Forming his tears into flood.


His need is not a bigger pocket,
Or a fam of a good blood;
His thirst made him a bitter poet,
Being lost in the flood.


Flood of a baby's first cry to the world,
Seeing everything newly indifferent;
He wishes for a straight world unwhirled,
Wishing not being so different.


Dirting the paper with stolen words,
From sloppy worlds of others;
The pauper gets deeper in his thirst,
And goner in others'.


Sodden paper-pieces in the mud,
Like flood-brought thrashes;
But they didn't came with the flood,
Just from a former poet's ashes.

I'm just a pocket poet -
No great ballad, no any sonnet,
I'm just a poet.


If it hurts I write -
Asking none if I'm right,
I just write.


I'm writing a stupid story -
That's running on another storey,
Away from everybody.


If it's hurt I hide
My words in my pockets' slide,
I just write.


When I'll stop this hobby,
People may find my pocket on a storey,
Maybe, I will have a story.

Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent  
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?

Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.

A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.

                               ---

O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –  
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.

O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –

As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.

                               ---

Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?

Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?

Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –  
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.

I have been myself, from
the outside looking in. The soul
a darker shade, where no blossoms
dare to bloom.

An experience of postpartum with poetry.
I yearn for ink to snuggle close, staining my arms
from the elbow down to my calloused palms.

Cradle close, soft cries-
it feeds from the paper's ******,
tender flesh that leaks words.

This child hungrier than I.
But the spirit is famished for
more than my body and mind can give.
These blossoms, dreary in gray
monochrome. I pour my heart out
to this infant haiku, that must grow more.
Though, nothing worth
saying appears.

Today marks 133,920 minutes and
the answer still isn’t clear.
Unfortunately, it never will be
because poetry doesn’t have one.

No rhyme or structure
nor 14 stanza song
can make it easier to
solve this meddling art.

Only 336 hours to go
maybe you’ve got an idea for
what all the math in this poem
actually signifies or -

The message it might have
and the meaning rooted in
this 23-year-old brain
who is struggling as well.

Still, after 106 days
when the final day is here
we’ll all scratch our heads with a shrug,
and say, poetry is never clear.

Mistakes are miracle gifts,
An opening of spirit wings
Teaching what might be
Painted on the sky in
Numerous serpentine solutions,
A letting loose of reins.

Just listen to the whisper
Of the mind’s darkest corners
Impossible words joined,
Somehow making sense
Of this life’s chaos.

Let them drift through dreams
Into puddle-muddle messages
In some esoteric language,
Translated from the frenzied scrawl
Of love-letters written to a thankless world.
All poems are exquisite mistakes.