You are the smell that comes before the rain, that gives me that feeling of serendipity and vagueness that I like,

You are the smell that comes before the rain, that gives me that feeling of serendipity and vagueness that I like,

You are the view that I like to see every night, you're no mere star, you're a frickin constellation. You are made up of different kinds of you that makes you beautiful,

You are the food that I want to gobble and eat up but is so effin cute that it makes me want to keep you and preserve you until I think that the time is right to dig in,

You are the painting that's genre can't be described, you're like realism and surrealism at the same time, you look like a fairy who descended from above but is real because I see you and can feel you,

You are the dream that I keep on dreaming, hoping that it would never end, the dream that I want to reach and achieve, your radiance is what keeps me going through dark phases of my life,

You are the black hole that attracts my whole being, being dragged to the depths of your own profundity and mystery, I keep on being ****** in when I'm with you, losing all sense of time and awareness,
You are the sun that makes me bloom in excitement when you appear, you brighten up each day and give me reasons to wait for moments when I can see you,

You are the reason why I'm so gung-** in the definition of love, in the mysteries of love, in the ways of love or just maybe love itself, but wait, you are love itself and I love you.

You are the reason why my writing became much more colorful and expressive, you give me reasons to write poetry, and I write poetry for the sole reason of expressing my feelings to you.

The rain falls once again
I sit on a chair near the balcony
Opening the window
the strong scent of rain
drills through my nostrils,
The thoughts of cacophonic
sounds inside my head
looming suddenly disappears,
The rain still falls hard but gently
the sounds of it creates
a relaxing sound that you like to hear.

I open up a book of Coelho's,
Reading till page seventeen and
I closed the book and got up
Going to the kitchen I warm up
some black coffee to drink,
I picked up my favorite mug
and poured the steaming hot
coffee that just finished heating up,
I hold the mug feeling it's warmth
with both hands, holding it tight.

I walked back at the balcony
Sitting at the chair and placing the mug
I look at the view in front of me,
of how these tiny water droplets
stay still when falling down the air
and breaks after falling to the ground,
and I remembered, "Oh, that was me"
I take a sip off this piping hot coffee
I feel the warmth spreading
and glanced at the beyond and there
I became deathly still.

A Poet uses words as weapons,
Using only his ink and pen,
Stories that’ll last for eons,
Are merely waiting to happen.

For a Poet never uses a sword,
Containing a will that will never yield,
Cause not even a fortress or a shield,
Could block the power of his word.

A Poet never practiced the bow,
Yet his lines hit you like an arrow.
A Poet never did ****** a spear,
Yet the force of words could let out a tear.

For a Poet never uses war-like things,
For the pain that his word brings,
No matter where you go or hide,
It always hits you on the inside.