I'm back to writing poetry again,
but not with the same feeling I had
when I first started writing poetry.

I used to start writing poetry on a blank sheet of paper, and a pen, and sometimes in a lecture notebook, maybe often before going to sleep, also on my smartphone notes.

Now, I'm back to writing poetry again,
but the feeling isn't like before,
for some reason now I seem to have lost interest, different from how I used to be.

I used to write poetry,
sometimes about my days full of emotion, oh no, more precisely about the loss of a lover, yes, I once had a lover, but not now.

I used to write poetry about loss, and everything related to it, maybe it's the rain that keeps falling, or the sunsets, or the lonely and lonely nights.

I used to write poetry about the past, which maybe now I shouldn't care anymore, actually I wanted to write all of that, but I no longer have the feeling.

I used to write poetry, and now I have forgotten many of the words, even the methods, please teach me to write poetry again.

One day you will love the blue sky that I see from here, when you ask me why it took me so long to pick you up after work, even though we spend time together in front of the screen—me, who at that time was still glued to the window; looking at some of the birds that managed to fly high into the sky, I'm sure at that time you were able to count them freely.

Later, if it rains in the afternoon, you will start to love the sun that never sets, telling you one of the most beautiful ways to leave, you will understand why what is far away seems close, and vice versa - you never prepared anything after parting and I are the people you care about; who also understands nothing but happiness.

Later, when the night comes with all its worries, you might find the shadows we've met before, I hope you don't run away. Because, wherever you go, everything will only end up hurting yourself.

You may find another pain from loneliness. Do not be afraid. After all, I've taught you how to sew wounds, even though I used to be blind.

I just want to
    be m  i  s         s  e   d.
I just want to  
be    l  ov     e  d.
I just want to
        be with y               ou
w he n I fe  el a      lone.

I will die alone
as a collection of books
abandoned on an old cupboard,
as a display in all kinds of libraries,
and only some people understand,
but fewer of which we can possibly count as good memories in writings,
even as poetry.

I will die alone,
and remember all forms of joy the latter, as a creature that ever lived,
as a flower which will not bloom again beautifully in the same place.

Today I can write the saddest poem,
like a beautiful birthday cake cut into pieces
or a candle that is blown out after a wish is read
or people congratulating you
on all the achievements
that you have persisted
until now in your growing age.

Today I can write the saddest poem,
but not about my birthday,
but about the days,
about the months,
about the years,
that I've been through,
everything was happy,
yes I am very happy.

When the rain falls
I think about you
My lips meet mugs
The morning coffee
that warms my body
Your love touches my heart
In the city that covered me
On your jacket
And I memorized