“What type of poem am I?”
I am as formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.

I am not a classic
written by the author, God.
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.

I am not in me,
though I abide within myself.
I am but a colour,
whose colours have worn away.

Maybe I was written as
an ethical effect of modern art.
Or maybe I was not written
but just replicated from the lives of others.

I wish I could read the critics’ minds.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anyone?
I loathe the way they recite me,
pretending to understand me.

Maybe I am
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or maybe I am
the narrative of my own life.

However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they can’t write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling, with a rose in the hand
in the boulevard of the thorns.

However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.

O Poet! O my maker!
What type of poem am I?
O strangers! O my readers!
What sort of poem am I?

I wish I could read myself
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?

“Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax?

This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.

No one knows what it is like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague its core is.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.

You can have my heart
You can break and bend it as you will
But I'll need something in return
I'll need the way your eyes sparkle in the light
And the way you run your hands through your hair when we fight
If you could leave your fingers intertwined with mine
Well, that would be more than fine

You can keep my dreams,
Throw them away  with us
But I want something too
I want the way you feel, flush against skin
And the way you say my name, over and over again
If you could give me your smile upon my lips
Maybe I can live with this

And you can move on
And I'll sit surrounded by the pieces you left me
Spending my time thinking about what should be
And you will find your second and third someone new
But I'll be happy here if you leave me the memories of you

Beauty beauty
Both good and bad

Here in the mirror
She stares and smiles

She sparkles with me
She keeps me alive

She throws her shadow
On my care

Let not their words
Penetrate and thrive

She sheds her poison
In my air

Beauty beauty
Till I die

Your place I visit
When I'm sad

Who are you?
Where have you been?
I've moved the heaven
I've moved the earth
But I couldn't find you
Then you arrive today
So suddenly

I don't understand
I don't know
Its a new atmosphere
Its a new world
Don't look away
Stay close to me
Even a few moments of love
Are never too less

Let's drown ourselves
Then loose ourselves
And forget we ever knew sadness
Cos I've found shelter
And I've found home
In the warmth of your gaze

I live in a glass house
built up on polite smiles
and forced laughter.

A house that I want
everyone to look into.
But one I never look out of,
to see you walking home alone,
on these dark empty streets
with lonely branches and street lamps
as company.

If I could see you
I would love you.

Because then I would understand
that love is

listening to you sing in the shower
to an audience of watered down
shampoo bottles
and gray bars of soap.

It is seeing you stare
out your solitary window
looking for stars in a city
whose lights are too bright.

It is feeling your heart beat
under thin cotton sheets, while
your mother and father
are fighting in the hallway
and you feel like these 17
years have been a waste
because you are just a child
holding a blanket again.

I’ve kept my shades down
and my doors locked
but the foundations of my
house are cracking like thin ice on
a January morning.

I have learned that
obligatory hugs
in the hallways, at dances, and at train stations
do not substitute for love.

Love lives beyond borders,
and fences, and walls, and barriers.

Ones that I’ve been to frightened
to jump over.


But if I knew what it felt like
to hold you under the covers
to keep you as warm as these
cold hands could.

To hear you in your silence screaming
in whispers, just like I am.

If I could look at your almond eyes
and your gawky arms,
and your spongy fingers,
and your silky hair.

And let the colors wash away, and the noises
fade out, and let the scratchy feeling of
reality become soft like your fingertips grazing my skin.

I would realize that the two different
houses we live in, share common ground.

Help me leave this house
that I’ve built on fear of honesty and
hold your hand, because in between the
spaces our fingers intertwine
is your heart and mine.

Building a new home,
with cement made of vulnerability,
and bricks made of acceptance.