I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

Burns in the heart
Need to recover from it
You left me a scar
That reminds you all the time
Pain never bothered me
But Separation had full effect
It feels like rocket launchers
Hitting my heart
Breaking it into several pieces
Everyday my task is to
Collect my pieces and
Attach them and
Giving a faking smile
That no one can ever know
My pain
I am an actor
Who is cheating me
To adapt for loneliness

They blow themselves up
into hundreds of tiny ****** pieces,
killing themselves and others
for the love of God,
or so they say.

But did anybody
ever hug them,
tell them we care,
whisper in their ear
to let them know,
they don't have
to go that far?

So go ahead
my global friends,
let's hug a terrorist today
& spread some genuine love.

I may cry
when you pass.
don't be fooled
it's not for you.

It's for the father
I should have had,
the father I deserved.
That's what I'll grieve
not you.

Never you.

What's there to miss?
I can do without you
making me feel awkward,
ignored,
an inconvenience.

Can you understand my view?

There were no cuddles
for me,
no tenderness
or tender words.

I did not even want you
to 'give me away'
on your only daughters
wedding day.
Escaping abroad
escaping feeling ignored.
You lost all rights
to hand me over
to another man
that would protect me.

You never got that right
did you?
Couldn't even protect me
from yourself.

So I sometimes think
about your health,
you, drinking yourself
               to
                    d
                      e
                  ­      a
                          t
                            h­

Not sure how much more
your old and bitter body can take

and I wait* ......

Inspiration comes
in many forms,
it can be stroked
from well-chosen words
or from clairvoyance,
vivid-images sent
across the moonbeams.

And cloaked in darkness,
I lie alone,
rising
to your sweet descriptions
of the morning sun,
certainly not obscene,
but dreamy-like.