Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

The sounds from the piano
Reminding me of nothing,
Tears glazing my eyes
Like they were memories,
if you ask me,
My fears are laced on the keys,
But faraway the piano is,
I might never reach.

The grey increased in my hair,
More words I get,
Words to go for the best,
Did I ever settle for less?

I shoved through sixteen,
I fantasised 18 for perfect things,
It came with uncertainties.

Uncertainties came with rules,
Rules for each corner of my room,
Rules that could still not work for me
But you,
But I have to live through all uncertainties,
To drop my rule.