She stabs him in his ribs
And lightly licks his lips.
Oh! wild lust,
Your venom is my blood.

What if;
Colors were flowers
And flowers were men
And men could swim to the sun?


Would it
Then be
Any different, would we
Still have,
Bombs and guns?


What if;
We were
The winds and waters
That cover this illuminant earth?


Would it
Then be
That we
Would fall
To berths that haven’t taken birth?


What if;
Tears
Had meanings and wisdom
And lips that spoke the truth absolute?


Would it
Then happen
That wars
And darkness
We spread for glory, we would mute?


What if;
The stars were hungry
And extraterrestrials
Our friends, and met us one day?


Would it
Then matter
What race
Or creed,
Or random colors our shadows went astray?

I wrote
I wrote
poems of disgust
poems of love
poems of criticism
Has it ever occurred to me
that my words were more than words
that my thoughts were more than thoughts
I see,
a poem works better when you're really confused
writing it.
And this probably why
I'm trying to write the confusion out
Words are being told and written
Tomorrow
words written on a piece of paper
may perhaps, mould my destiny
And I'm more confused than ever
the day before
On whether this is the start
or this is the end
Why the sonnet?
the villanelle?
the ballad?
why, oh why
Some reason why
I saw poets drafting poems
5 drafts before a poem
and I don't why
Simply because am I not writing a poem?
that many people put pens onto their heads
and scratch their chins
Is it not a poem enough that I'm writing this?
Or filled with secrets should it be?
A need for a title?
A space for a little flight off to another world?
Where Time starts with a capital T?
And perhaps, Death too?
Is it not a poem enough that I'm writing this?
Repetition after repetition
Theme
Structure
why the need
if you dare to speak out through your words on paper?

setting millions of alarms on your mobile phone
books and notes scattered all around
droopy eyes
shutting off...

jolts of nightmares
test papers test papers test papers
A big F written on the side on each one of them
thoughts fashioned in the form of thorns that aim to destroy you.

eyes wide open
staring into space
trying to fathom yourself

what is sleep?

a garden of flowers
rows of various colors
a planet of life
lands of various colors
blending together
as they will always do so
forever

my hands have touched many others
my bare feet have trampled many a clover
my soul is kin to many others
my heart has had many a lover

I would live this life twice over
and over
and over
and over

Wandering down an empty road
making a new path
a new life is born
a new piece of history
just waits to unfold

Driving past the city streets
in an alley is a seat
for the homeless, more a palace
where more then the rats come to feast

Sailing past the fish in the sea
looking in the water
ripples tearing through
soft glaze of the sun's reflection

Crawling through the woods at night
animals searching for a bite
jumping in a tree with all their might
forcing life to stop.

Wandering down an empty road
making a new path
a new life is born
a piece of history
that can never turn back.

This bed is soft and
My skin is warm underneath
this quilt made for two