I'm searching for a thought,
That has a title
And a body,
And a conclusion.

A confrontation with the present,
To reassure me
That the future
isn't an illusion.

Cause I seem to spill time,
Like my body
is a generator of
seconds and minutes.

And when I tend to have
too many dreams
I leave some behind,
Following a dream limit.

I tell myself I'm in control,
I hold the temperature,
And the amount
of pressure.

But why do I always trail behind,
Inferior to the smell of fear,
Staying indoors
Avoiding an unkind weather.

My mind putting a magnifying lens
On every unknown,
So I'm a million times
smaller than what's outside.

Bargaining with silhouettes on walls,
As if they're keeping track
Of every doubt
I had solidified.

Yet I'm daydreaming under umbrellas
Unconvinced to let
my newborn dreams
into the world,
Why should I bother..?

Who would care to listen
to my voice,
So I'll just watch them
turn to burst bubbles
Like all the others.

•●•

Knee deep in earthen slop--
down of downpour, knees protracting
as bulbous nodes, stiff with implanted ****.
We both, and as for what inhibition--what
wind betook our love, deaf to the sound
of tremulous waterlog?
We who memorize separate passages of
each other's lives--now cite them with
pleasure's other, we both as one...now as once--not without pain.

I have stacks and heaps of poems I have misread.

Where I filled the blanks

which were not meant to be filled.

Where I was supposed to stand stupefied by absurdity of life

I tried to find some order , some reason.

Where I was supposed to sit and listen to worries

I gave advice.Or worse, interfered in lives not mine.

It was always about what I could give to life,

than what life has given to me.

So I have suffered long

trying to fill silences in heart

and words in blank pages.

And never to have made a difference.

Never to have known the beauty

of being incomplete and unfinished.