POSTCARD TO A POET


I don't want to write it down.
I don't want to give those thoughts life form
cause once you put them down on that soft pillow of memory….
Once you do that,
It becomes truth!
The one that haunts you....
The one that comes in your dreams
The truth that never knew lie-if.

You become its slave,
You share your lunch with it.
You just dream about that moment trapped on paper
that moment you decided
to give your thoughts wings to eternity.

Your words -
your destiny,
yet even sworn enemy.

If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long.

Just long enough for people to stop and live
the moment along.

If we could stop and tell the world the point of it all,
many eyes of disguise would laugh as they think they already know.

How could we forget and loose our point along the way,
And keep on walking breathlessly, as if the secret has never been told away.

We share our memories and our tears
We live in an irrational emotional fears.

If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long

just long enough to catch attention
in this fast living world.

Just long enough to remind you
that all you have is NOW.

WHAT ARE WE?

Time on my hands -
like blood at a ****** scene.

My face muscles frozen as I kneel before
the last form of belief that shall ever exist.


WHAT AM I -
But a time traveler that has but witnessed extinctions and destruction.
The last human shadow abandoned by moral values.
A forgotten and abandoned generosity at the cemetery of Existance.

I can barely remember how I got here,
As never have I imagined the world this place to be.

Never have I thought that wrinkles on the heart can tell such sad stories,
Nor did I imagine how hard it would be to keep the waterfall of words
from running over the cliff of the lips.
For, some eyes in this world have witnessed greater pain
than it can ever be fairly monumentalized.

WHAT HAVE I -
But grotesque images
And some predecessors' stories.
Nothing do I see but what world of agony wants me to see.


The energy of sorrow and despair
outbalanced the warm and bright rays of circle of birth.


WHAT ARE WE –
But soulless and narcissistic
yet self-abandoned creatures,
that criticize and worship
random crumbs and pieces of good deeds.
As for the better seldom does anyone know.
  
WHAT AMAZES US –
But our true forgotten existence -
Mystery of humanity, that surprises as a sudden shock of electricity -
That is nothing but a last sign of natural instincts that existed in
someone else's stories of what we had used to be.

Nothing to remember -
But melodramatic elegies
Of wars and losses,
Self-Abundance and social negligence
celebrated at the Inferno of wasted souls.

What do we love?
What have we become?

Long long time ago,
When this very moment,
is a chain of past,
I will ask you  - my darling,
If tomorrow
will last.

Look at the sky, let your dreams fall on your eyelids,
just like summer rain would, if you had ever let it.

Touch your hair, with eyes still wide shut,
Oh, hear that honey-like silk craving to live again.
Stamp your foot.

Now!

Now is the moment when you grab yourself, when you cry of happiness.
Now is when you realize that nothing but yourself is worth enough to touch the life for the first time.


Be the baby ready to live,
Spread your palms and touch your smiley cheeks.

I was yet to be born,
NOW
I am born (again).



Not when others tell you to be,
but when your inner self becomes ready.

Old shine of a lantern pride.
Wise though, and bright enough,
Holds the secrets that never have shone.

Old shine of a lantern shy.
For jealous souls to cry at dawn,
As brightness of wise is not to expose.

"Shy or pride,
Dusk or dawn,
Envy or lust,
all was once based on trust."

Another shine from the old lantern pride,
That left us all,
with a warming thought.

When the morning hits,
Sunrise mourns.
When I see you,
My stomach roars.


Glass full of toxin.
Room's insidious criers.

Tell me,
Why am I here?
Why are you so scared?

Look through the window.
Naked,
It is easier.

Like freedom.
Like space.
Like something I long for.
Dance.

Forgive my language.
For, toxin speaks out of me.
But still...

Morning waits for me, just to say:
“Hey girl, you are not free...”

Once upon a time,
I felt cold breeze
whispering me something.
It was hard to decipher-
so, I thought to myself
“I must be imagining things again”.

It was summer,
the Sun was trying to burn my pale skin.
I was hiding,
still not crying.

Then, it was autumn.
It was my birthday.
My springtime.
When I get born again.
Only butterflies around me.

But, just when I would try to understand.
They would die.
All of them.

I still linger here.
Alone.
Confused.

How many seasons yet to pass,
For me to feel endless, everlasting grass.

Paintings that reflect.
Lover that comes back.

We are but echo
of years passing by,
in needless of pain,
WE are born over again.

Paintings that reflect.
Years passing by.
I want you here again -
Even if pain is the only prize I get.

Hey,
Lover of past,
Husband of morning,
Skeleton of night,
Let me be your scarf when painful
wintercarnation hits again.

Wrinkles on my brain.
They suppress the screams
of the lucid echo, that is tagging along me.

Tap.

Smoke.

Weeping.

I woke up and found myself sleeping still.
I heard my friends' laughing drill.
I felt my sweat leaking through the sorrow.

Tap.

Smoke.

Scream.


Now, it was too late -
My dreams were far gone already.
I was behind the horizon. Tragedy.

I am a blind follower.
Asking WHY?
Begging through cry.

Can't you see my sorrow
through my pale skin,
as my mind leeks out of my see blue eyes?

I am at the crossroad
haunting my voice through deep foggy forests.

Don't be just another passenger
who misspells my agony.
Hold my hand.
Help me forgive myself.

(Hey you!)
Hold my hand.

….Hold my hand.

Yet, to be born,
Unleashed.
From unconscious freedom,
the debt of silence,
Followed by pretentious dark, nicely sliced abyss.


Yet, to be.
Reaching out my last scream of silence.
Calling for words so sad and away from me.
Barely visible, trough dim smoke of agony.



Has yet come already?..Please!
Delusions are painful,
and the abyss in coffee brings out the taste of inner fear
and yet not felt claustrophobia.