yep, i should feel
jealous, you've been
somewhere in the world
and sent a postcard
and got a sun-tan
and ate some exotica's worth
of food...
         me?
           i just went into a part
of my mind, that i never
knew existed...
  and just became impatient
with my buttocks,
sitting in a chair, with the so-called:
ants-in-my-pants;
both stances are clearly deserving
applause...
   only that the latter,
                gets all the laughter.

What is a poem but a maze of powerful words
that only the poet can truly understand
What is a poet but a man
a pencil in his hand
with every word he engraves upon her skin
he is pulled further
and further in
lost he is no more
left at the mercy of her soul
forever adrift in his words
her words
her

***** is not high on the list
pain and confusion not welcome

does it make you humble
when you listen to the ideals of the young?

come closer to death
by coming closer to life

no one is going to understand you fully
your a mystery even to yourself

does any of this matter?
are we making things count

poetry frees the poet
the poet needs freedom to love.

what if we'd stop or just
try to jump
what if to carry wasn't meant
for us after all
what if I was never yours to hold
write this book
trust the "I know"
and what if the truth was right
would I still try to convince wrong?

you see
the line grows from above
and I'll sell the book
I promise
'cause "what if" was never mine
it was yours
and only
yours


a.b

A bow and arrow
I gave the God's hands
And red
I paint his hands and feet
No benches at school
Dad doesn't use pencils for
writing any more
The poets of my country are vanishing...
My mom never grows rice

...به دست های خدا تیر و کمان دادم
دست و پایش را قرمز می کنم
میز و صندلی مدرسه نداشته باشد
پدر دیگر با مداد نمی نویسد
...شاعرهای کشور من رو به انقراض اند
مادرم هیچوقت برنج نمی کارد