She cries late
                  every night
     Turns off all the
                           lights
         Sits in bed
bawls
             her eyes out
      in the dark
Cutting out pieces
      of her heart
No one can see
                          the scars
           of her sewing
back up her chest
       Soon she will be
             an empty shell
        Hopefully
                    putting her soul to rest
If her heart
                    is no longer there
It can't get broken,
              right?
If no one can see
                          the tears
Then she never cried,
                     right?

You wonder
why I wiggle
so much
why my legs
bounce,
and my hands
twitch.
Truth is,
my mind
can't slow down
It doesn't know
how to take a day off,
its far too good
at tormenting me
more and more
with each
passing second.

-JRM

/
When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly

When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity

Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme

Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm

You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically

You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously

The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic  

Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

///

In my springtime,
when moonlit was falling from her(moon) height
mother was lip syncing the lullaby
and I turned to sleep
It grew a sweet dream of summer
that was created too many stir of dreams

Then I can remember,
when every year,
late autumn had come,
I kept my kite on the blue sky
that was floating with drifted clouds
and I was awaking again with a big shout
sometimes I had seen supernatural shadows on the evening sky

If I address my adult young
When the mystic purple camellia were blooming
the grasshoppers were rounding
and the beautiful shrubs of white flowers were dancing
with the gentle breeze,
I was wandering in the ground
then the bees were humming around
when I painted her wild beauty
and it seemed me as a sweetie

I know you say me a dreamer
but you don't know,
my grandfather was a farmer
and my father was a sailor
who was sailing away his life into the blue ocean

After then day by day I grew older
yet I have locked all those lost in a folder
and taken all those responsibility in my shoulder
after then I had fallen in too many doubts
it was again the too dark cloud’s shout
who are those dark clouds?
how did it melt and bring the tears!
how the petals of roses grew wither!

Then I drafted,
crafted
and drifted all of my dreams
then a train had come to my known station
and carried me again from the dark to light

Again I have made a dream
and I sing a song of spring
after then I take a sad song
and try to make it delighted
that certainly it makes me rolling,
and moving towards the sweet summer
but again the monsoon has blown
towards the dry leaves of murmur
and slowly and slowly,
it has swiped me toward the sound of banner
that was passing through my life
///

@ Musfiq us shaleheen