tharindra - Hello Poetry

The rain always comes when you least expect it. Like a drunken car - crashing into a busy restaurant Or It'll tap your shoulder from behind and whisper "We were always with you" So I always have to be ready to run, remove myself from me like a shirt on fire. Then hide, between the sheets, in a tasteless cup of tea from a ****** restaurant or in a toilet stall. In somewhere where the limit of my reality are within an arm's reach where there are no holes for shadows to creep in. But Are there such places? Can anyone carry such a world on their back like refrigerator, open the door when you want to hide and hide. I am always in heavy rain or in a heavy drought without a spring with blossoming flowers and birds chirping (I don't even remember what the flowers look like) When there's barely a moment of calm I'm starting to feel black Like a drop of black ink I stand before my strangeness It is worn on my forehead like a red streak that cannot be erased. In the city square or the buses or trains waves upon waves of people in a sea of human voices, all of them know something I don't know They are all in a secret society Where do their rivers of love flow? When will their volcanoes of hatred erupt? Seas of brotherhood, storms of violence None of my items are on my map My map full of feelings I copied from books I am walking along that map without understanding Like dancing according to the illustrations of a book (while everyone watches) (I think) I am not a human None of them wants to talk to me Maybe it's because of the red spot on my forehead Or maybe because I can't dance and they know it Then it starts to rain I can feel my face melting (I always had a fear of what my face was doing when sitting in front of others) I want to hide from the rain. I struggle to close my eye which is broken off of me and looking at me The rain is getting heavier and it is melting the concrete towers of the city That rain is not beautiful as much as in other people's poems (Nothing is as beautiful as it is in poetry) Maybe others are lying Because to them the rain is so beautiful that they are doing everything to avoid it.

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Jan 22, 2024

Jan 22, 2024 at 1:51 AM UTC

Rain

The rain always comes when you least expect it. Like a drunken car - crashing into a busy restaurant Or It'll tap your shoulder from behind and whisper "We were always with you" So I always have to be ready to run, remove myself from me like a shirt on fire. Then hide, between the sheets, in a tasteless cup of tea from a ****** restaurant or in a toilet stall. In somewhere where the limit of my reality are within an arm's reach where there are no holes for shadows to creep in. But Are there such places? Can anyone carry such a world on their back like refrigerator, open the door when you want to hide and hide. I am always in heavy rain or in a heavy drought without a spring with blossoming flowers and birds chirping (I don't even remember what the flowers look like) When there's barely a moment of calm I'm starting to feel black Like a drop of black ink I stand before my strangeness It is worn on my forehead like a red streak that cannot be erased. In the city square or the buses or trains waves upon waves of people in a sea of human voices, all of them know something I don't know They are all in a secret society Where do their rivers of love flow? When will their volcanoes of hatred erupt? Seas of brotherhood, storms of violence None of my items are on my map My map full of feelings I copied from books I am walking along that map without understanding Like dancing according to the illustrations of a book (while everyone watches) (I think) I am not a human None of them wants to talk to me Maybe it's because of the red spot on my forehead Or maybe because I can't dance and they know it Then it starts to rain I can feel my face melting (I always had a fear of what my face was doing when sitting in front of others) I want to hide from the rain. I struggle to close my eye which is broken off of me and looking at me The rain is getting heavier and it is melting the concrete towers of the city That rain is not beautiful as much as in other people's poems (Nothing is as beautiful as it is in poetry) Maybe others are lying Because to them the rain is so beautiful that they are doing everything to avoid it.

66

They warned me about you. You, the fox hunter, who can see through me hiding between the autumn leaves. you who hide among the orange trees and put your foot on my chest and pushes your gun into my forehead with an unchanging smile. They warned me about you. But you have beautiful blue eyes.

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Aug 23, 2018

Aug 23, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC

Fox Hunter

They warned me about you. You, the fox hunter, who can see through me hiding between the autumn leaves. you who hide among the orange trees and put your foot on my chest and pushes your gun into my forehead with an unchanging smile. They warned me about you. But you have beautiful blue eyes.

10

Once it was a wildfire, the love. Now its a candle, I have to protect from the merciless wind.

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Dec 20, 2017

Dec 20, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC

Candle