I haven't written for a while,
And I don't think I will soon,
It seems as if my sun has set,
And the night has sealed my doom.

I've lost my pen in the crowds,
In the dark, roaring, and grumpy clouds,
I've lost it somewhere in the damp rooms,
Behind the back doors or the narrow streets,
In that empty alley with worn brick walls...

Perhaps I will write again.
But not here. But not now.
I am enveloped by the night,
It will take me time to find myself.

Perhaps when the morning comes
I'll write again.

Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to
Familliar hilltops that I call to
Farwell, familliar wood nearby,
Farwell, the beauty of the sky,
Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;
I am exchanging my dear peace
For noisey, glittering vanities...
Farewell my freedom that must persih!
Whither and wherefore do I strive?
What can I hope for in this life?

The night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.
Perhaps I would be able to hear the roaring wind
but it is silenced by the tick tock of the clock on the wall.

Maybe, maybe I will write again,
Maybe, maybe I will learn to play a happy tune,
One day I'll forget elegies
And stop making these melacholy effigies

I don't really like rhyming now,
They sound too happy and are sometimes cheap.
I rather write to my poems and say, "Thou
art my biggest mystery, you're too shallow. You're too deep."

So in conclusion,
I don't know why I'm writing.
All I know in this confusion
Is that the night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.

The clock is ticking. Tick. Tock.
The people are hollow,
The people are stuffed
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.

To spartan prose the years are turning,
Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning;
And I - I with a sigh confess -
I'm running after her much less,
My pen has lost its former pleasures
Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems,
Today, quite different, chilling dreams;
Quite different unrelenting pressures,
In stillness or in social noise,
Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.

How intense can be the longing to escape from the emptiness and dullness of human verbosity, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labour, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!

Who goes there?
Who tries to enter this sepulchre?
How did you make your way inside?
I built my castle on the highest mountains,
I built walls around it so great that no being could pierce them,
I hid my heart in the most complex of vaults,
How did you get here?
Did you fly in with the wind,
Or did the moon bring you in?
Did the stream carry you,
Or did you outshine the sun and he let you enter?
How did you get past the tempest outside?

Who are you?
Why do you wish to tread the world of  shadows?
There's nothing here to see but the weeping souls of the exhausted thought...

The wind roars
The sky is patched with clouds
The leaves swirl in the wind's embrace

Art is a statement about life's truths.

We often ask ourselves "why can't they see it the way we do? Why is it that that they can't adjust themselves to think like me, even if only for an hour?" And so we get disappointed in everyone, we think them fools and not once try to see things as they see it, not once do we try to think the way they do and thus we shall never understand why it is that they don't understand.

Sorrow has settled in between your beautiful eyes,
The night's nested in your black hair,
And your glassy eyes shine like blue stars.

Be with me,
Be with me for when we are together the wind carries away my loneliness,
The moon smiles,
The sun shines,
The leaves swirl in the wind,
The birds sing,
The flowers bloom,
The soil smells of morning rain,
Be with me.

Spring fluttered out of my hands and disappeared,
In my room, I burn from loneliness,
Within my heart, an ice flower has sprouted.

Only one who loves can remember so well.

poem

Whom then to love? Whom to have faith in?
Who can there be who won't betray?
Who'll judge a deal or dipustation
Obligingly by what we say?
Who'll not bestrew our path with slander?
Who'll cosset us with care and candour?
Who'll look benignly on our vice?
Who'll never bore us with his sighs?
Oh, ineffectual phantom seeker,
You waste your energy in vain:
Love your own self, be your own man,
My worthy, vulnerable reader!
A worthwhile object: surely who
Could be more loveable than you?

Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life
and do not die a half death
If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent
If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance
Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes
Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you no where
Half an idea will bear you no results
Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time yet in the same space
It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn't live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you
and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability
but you are able for you are not half a being
You are a whole that exists to live a life
not half a life

Is darkness the absence of light?


Is good the absence of evil?


Can there be good without evil?


There cannot be light without dark in the same way that there cannot be good without evil - you need one to see and understand the other.
There cannot be sound without silence for without these intervals of no-sound you would have pure noise and that would be incomprehencible.
Next time that you are hearing someone talk, the song of the birds, the sound of steps or the noise of anything - try to focus on the intervals of silence and you shall see that if they were not there, between each word and each step, you would hear nothingness. But what is nothingness?

In order for there to be nothing there must be something, right?

The universe,
every cloud,
every flower,
every beautiful and ugly thing,
Want you to live your own life,
To carve your own path,
Even your ancestors
Want you to walk the path of freedom.

To the degree that you condemn others and find evil in them,
You are to that degree unconscious of the same thing in yourself.

Masked and Chained under every face, every body, lies dormant the human psyche - a sea so vast, a space so immense that none can come to fathom it whole.

"But Lensky, not, of course, intending
To wear the ties of marriage yet,
Looked forward warmly to befriending
Onegin, whom he'd newly met.
Not ice and flame, not stone and water,
Not verse and prose are from eachother
So different as these men were.
At first, since so dissimilar,
They found eachother dull, ill-suited;
Then got to like eachother, then
Could possibly not be separated.
Thus (I'm the first one to confess)
People are friends from idleness."

Please reader, hear my plea
and let go of my poems and me,
I can no longer play the lyre
For my situations' oh so dire,
These are matters of the mind,
The like of which, I must say,
I've seen nothing of the kind.
So heed my words and leave today,
For this old jester's pen has dried,
His tears have gone unseen,
And in his heart he has demeaned
Each and every word he's tried
To write with a once ardent heart,
From all of which he must depart.

“But even friendship like our heroes'
Exist no more; for we've outgrown
All sentiments and deem men zeroes-
Except of course ourselves alone.
We all take on Napoleon's features,
And millions of our fellow creatures
Are nothing more to us than tools...
Since feelings are for freaks and fools.
Eugene, of course, had keen perceptions
And on the whole despised mankind,
Yet wasn't, like so many, blind;
And since each rule permits exceptions,
He did respect a noble few,
And, cold himself, gave warmth its due.”

― Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

Over the course of the past 6 months, which I have mostly spent in solitude of the soul and mind, I have begun to form many new perceptions and philosophies that have all become the substance of this great view and grander soul with which I not only see life, but venture through it.

One new way in which I see life in is that when I look at people, I look far deeper than the mere flesh and bone, I dislike just looking at the faces now; faces, like masks, are for nothing but trickery, especially for those who know this and so use it to take advantage of others.
I also highly disapprove of those who do only look at the face, they decide whether someone is good or bad, worthy or unworthy, smart or stupid, based on the complexions of their face; the acne on their cheeks or the scar on their brow.
I see people no longer as people but as souls... Yes, you are a soul, a much grander being and your body is simply the machine with which you experience life, a machine that allows you to experience yourself.  

Sadly, some people have not found out this truth for they are far too lost being the body rather than the soul, they are the ones who have paid no attention to their superconscious, for them the body is all there is and so they give way to excessive *** or ****** pleasure, to drowning themselves in alcohol, to ruining their body with cigarettes and resorting to drugs to fill the void which is left when you pay no attention to your soul. Interesting will be the day when these same people cannot get these pleasures, their moods will be as grey as the autumn skies and their tones bitter and wrathful. If there is still some of that soul left in them then they will cope with living without these things and get used to a new, better, life, free of such chains. If they cannot cope then they will either find or do something worse to make up for it or they will stop at nothing to get that drug, that alcohol, or the feeling of ****** pleasure, some may even commit suicide.  



Now, to expand a little more on the body being a machine to allow you to live and experience yourself; I say this because the body is, in fact, a biological machine run by the greatest, fastest and strongest computer known to us: the brain. I call the body a machine for it, just like any other machine, needs fuel – warmth, food and water, and oxygen. I call the mind a computer for many reason, an easy one to explain would be that it, like any other computer, works with electricity - neurons use both electrical charges and chemicals to communicate with each other.  

This is what you use to create each and every moment, to create each emotion and experience. And it is through our creations which we get to know who we really are.

On a cold starless night,
He'd light three candles warm and bright,
We'd sit around him and he would say:
"What tale shall I tell you today?"

Everyone shouted out their favourite tale
And he'd tell them all in great detail!

He would tell tales of the mermaid's love,
Of the farmer's tears and heavens above,
He'd recite us an epic or two,
and we'd laugh and jest the whole night through.

He'd tell us about long lost loves,
And of bravery and what it behoves,
He'd talk about the seven skies,
And tell us about that mermaid's eyes,
He'd sing about the oceans and rivers and seas,
About wizards and sacred trees!
About fireflies and midnight breeze.

We would all sit around or fall asleep,
And our imaginations would pierce deep
Into the skies or the oceans blue
Until the night sky lost its hue,
And the sun's light peered through.

We all loved him and he loved us too,
but the hands of time always separate you,
So now he's above the seven skies,
and watches over us with big bold eyes,
I hope that I can make him proud,
And fly through this life strong and unbowed.

So that one day, when I'm old and yet hale,
I can tell my grandchildren this very tale,
To tell them of the desert sky,
And the little prince who could fly.

So that in peace I can pass by...

You often visit me at night,
But I've seen you in daytime too,
With the morning petrichor,
With the beat of my heart,
Or at times with certain names,
Names that set my mind aflame,
You come with the smell of music,
Or the taste of certain memories,
And I've always welcomed you with open arms,
But it weighs my soul down...

You are a blessing and a curse,
Without you I'd never appreciate the life I've lived,
However when I am with you,
I am left with tearful eyes and a heavy heart...

Dear nostalgia
Please come at regulated times,
My heart can't break a thousand times a day.

It's been three weeks,
and still you do not leave,
Is there trouble within your heart,
Or is there a message I must perceive?

Perhaps my mind isn't done with you,
But my conscience left you behind...
And I've been pondering deeply
About thoughts of every kind.

What is that you want with me?
Why do you appear each night?
Are you troubled or sad?
If so, why do your eyes glimmer so bright?

You smile your mischievous smile,
And at times you're very rash,
I don't know what to make of it,
And I know I'll be a abashed.

I think seeing you should do it,
It can put the questions away,
I can make my peace with you,
And sleep soundly one day.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Too often do we dance and fool our youth away, too often do we attempt to love without knowing how, too often do we write letters that end up in the hearth, too often do we get agitated by the song of the simple bird, too often do we hate and forget to pity those whom we despise, too often do we cage the blue bird in our heart, too often do we lie, not to the world but to ourselves, too often we ponder, speak, and forget action behind, too often do we ignore ourselves, too often do we ignore each other.  

Too often do the authors try to paint the world with colours of big words and elegant sentences, yet as beautiful it may seem to the eye, the world they paint is far too artificial, far too unnatural, far too normal.

We do it all too often; we hate without reason, we believe without proof, we forget that hate is the work of the unloved, we live our lives as if they’re shows for everyone else, we become bitter wolves with venomous fangs and poisonous tongues, we rip at each other, with words, with thoughts, with deeds of every kind.  

Too often we forget our humanity behind.

I don't know what I want you to be
I just want the night to end
And the day to pass by in a flash.
Yet I still want to be stuck in time
I don't know what to ask of you,
Perhaps if time went faster
It would wither our worries away
I don't know what to ask the Day,
My head is a jumbled mess
I just want you to come quicker
Please

Life is a game, a grandscale game with never ending experiences, feelings and thoughts to be had. Within this great game we play many other games, a major category of this, being social games.
One, somewhat flawed, rule which we have made up for this social game is that one really doesn't know or doesn't feel something unless they can describe it with words whereas that's not the case!

You can describe something but you cannot tell me it's hows or what it truly is, let me give you an example:
I tell my friends that I am in love with a girl, raptorously, and they ask me to "prove it" or tell them how I'm "in love with her" and, if I'm a good poet, I would say: "I love her as the fish in the pond loves the moon's reflection, I love her as the birds love to sing in the mornings, I love her as the toe loves hitting the side of something at 3 in the morning, I love her rapturously, with all my being and all my heart." and then they would say wow and say that yes I really do love the girl.

However not everyone is a poet and mere words cannot express how and what we feel because as much as I try to express my love to the world through words and utterances it will always fail to send out what I truly feel at heart. You cannot tell me how you beat your heart, how you formulate your thoughts or how you digest your food, you just 𝑑𝑜 it.

To try to explain somethings to some people would be like trying to drink the ocean with a fork: ardous, boring and neverending. You can always try to, but you would get tired in the first 30 seconds and they, too, would leave.

I've lived to bury my desires
and see my dreams corrode with rust
now all that's left are fruitless fires
that burn my empty heart to dust.

Struck by the clouds of cruel fate
My crown of Summer bloom is sere
Alone and sad, I watch and wait
And wonder if the end is near.

As conquered by the last cold air
When Winter whistles in the wind
Alone upon a branch that's bare
A trembling leaf is left behind.

A little peace
within the last hours of the almost bygone day
a little silence
between the days
so that the nascent yesterday does not get in the past
and tomorrow is lived for today

I wish to write a poem out of tears.
I wish to write a poem out of laughter.
I wish to write a poem out of sorrow and rejection.
I wish to write a poem out of the good times no longer here.
I wish to write words out of the misery, out of the agony that millions of children live through everyday.
Whether they're missing, abused, kidnapped, sold, ran away, beaten every day, carved in their leaders words.
I wish to write poems made out of stars.
Faintly watching us slowly turn to them every night.
I wish to write a poem that every human, every creature, every animal, every creature can understand.
I wish to write poems with no words.
As the most profound words say the least.
I wish to write a poem made of blood, tears, sweat, skin, hair, teeth.
I wish to write a poem made of broken trees, torn apart to make buildings bigger.
I wish to write a poem out of the soul of those who are now extinct.
I wish to write a poem that can touch a person's heart.
Sadly without these miseries.
How are we ever to know what happiness really is?

The night is silent,
The cool breeze passes through each alley and street,
The stars try to keep their heavy eyes open in their drowsiness,
And the moon has covered herself with the thick blanket of clouds.

I wish I could sing you a lullaby or tell you a story to help you fall asleep,
However the rain and the kind crickets are already doing that for us,

I wish you a safe and sound journey to the world of dreams,
Goodnight my friend.

Wandered here and there
But not to find anywhere
Those lovely days
When I heard the cuckoo’s call
For which I gave a reply,
He kept on cooing over and over
That raised my frenzy and joy.

Lovely were those days
When I played on the dew laced leaves
And blushed the little blooms in glee
And in a rush to catch the butterflies
That took the flowers' daily surprise.

What lovely days were they,
When I played with the chatterry rain
That slid down the roof like shiny pearls
And filled my little hands with joy
To splash on my brother’s face
Who made me cry for what I did.

Will I ever get back those days
When I sailed my paper boat
In the little puddle in my yard
And had a fight with my brother
For plunging it before it reached ashore.

I wish if I could get back in a lovely trail
Alike the little moon high up in the sky
To the days foregone where I had it all
Of love, care and those naughty fights
That still linger on so close to heart
And never to part those lovely days again.

I feel like I must confess,
I owe it to my readers...

To tell you the truth,
I never really know what to write about,
I could write about a summer day,
Or autumn and it's dismay,
I could paint the colours of spring,
Or the bride who lost her ring,
I could write about the lovelorn youth
Or the pain that laughs can sooth,
I could tell tales about the moon,
Or the serpent behind the dune,
Perhaps I'd write about the sky,
Or about wanting to cry.

In all honesty I don't know what to write about,
I could write about not knowing what to write about,
But I just close my eyes and let the hand write what it will,
I trust the pen,
I trust the hand,
I trust my readers' taste :)

Sky shines a pinkish hue
The wind hums a lonely tune
Dusk is cold

"When you don't know what you're living for, you don't care how you live from one day to the next. You're happy the day has passed and the night has come, and in your sleep you bury the tedious question of what you lived for that day and what you're going to live for tomorrow"

- Ivan Goncharov

I love you. I am madly in love with you.

With the whole of my being, with my sanity and insanity, with all the stars, with all the moons and all the skies I love you.

I do not know how to tell you that I still love you,
Not with the immensity of the oceans,
Not with the might of the mountains,
Not as much as the constellations and planets,
Not with the beauty of the waterfalls,
Not with the melody of the birds,

But with the immensity of the galaxies,
With the might of nebulae,
With the energy of every sun,
With the beauty of the little stars that glimmer like diamonds in the night sky,
With the smell of rain in the morning,
With the melody of our hearts.

I love you.

I fell in love with moonlight-
in my darkness, shining so bright.
She danced in the breeze, lit up the night,
her glow consumed my very sight.

But moments in time soon burn away,
and moonlight just cannot stay.
As sure as night turns into day,
that trickle of light will go astray.

But for a moment, through the storm,
she lit my world, she kept me warm,
then flickered out, as is the norm
for moonlight, its fleeting form.

I fell in love with moonlight,
for but a moment, all was right.
Her glow, her dance, consumed my sight
and faded out at end of night.