BOX cars run by a mile long.
And I wonder what they say to each other
When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.
  Maybe their chatter goes:
I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.
I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.
I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.
I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year.
  
Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners
when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look.
  
Then the hammer heads talk to the handles,
then the scoops of the shovels talk,
how the day's work nicked and trimmed them,
how they swung and lifted all day,
how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope.
In the night of the dark stars
when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle,
in the night on the mile long sidetracks,
in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners,
the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams-
and sometimes they doze and don't care for nothin',
and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars.
  The stuff of it runs like this:
A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way.
Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman's lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all.
  
People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.

I saw a beautiful soul today,
Masked had he been,
His face, nobody had seen...

He had a heart that did beat for all,
He had a mind, that did think about good for all,
He had a set of hands, that did work for humanity,
He had a wallet, that did open - only for charity,

He took no name, he took no fame,
He kept helping people,
And wanted everyone to do the same,

He worked for orphanages, old age homes,
He worked for hospitals,
And not for running his own family,

What a man, of hospitality!

What a beauty he bad been!
Masked had he been,
His face nobody had seen...

We're so many yet so alone,
We live in a prison and call it a home..


Only if I could die, I could be well,
Since over 7 billion people on this planet,
And not even a single has time for me,
What The hell...

whenever I cry, I just have a blanket,
My friends - they're so busy,
I feel like John Cena -
Saying you can't see me..

Somebody has a life to make,
Somebody is busy in the life already made,
And somebody's somebody has problems from me..
That's what the world's population sounds to me!

I want to die,
I want to end my life,
Maybe a dagger, a bottle of pills,
A gun or just the kitchen knife..

Or else,
Maybe this world could be made a better place,
And this Earth can too have better grace...
Where all are the winners of the same race,
Where there's no religion, no gender and no race..

Where the news  isn't flooded with - murders, robberies, corruption, abduction and ****..

Where people love humanity, and equality,
Where people love animals and are against them the cruelty,
Where mother nature is treated with all the novelty..
And where people don't live for money..

And where there is no liquor, no smoking pipe,
All humans, living a peaceful life..

No army - fighting for borders,
No policemen killing innocent 'cause of orders,
No terrorists no racists,
And humanity has no horrors...

I know that world is kinda impossible to create,
But maybe this does happen,
If  a little  step  we  initiate..

We're so many yet so alone,
We live in a  prison and call it a home..

A girl of like eleven,
Seemed so fragile for the nature's cycle.
She wasn't yet as tall as she wanted to be,
Things like getting bigger ***** and better *****,
Took her to heaven.
And made her happy...

A girl of like eleven,
Seemed so young for the nature's cycle,
She wasn't yet told about any ****** cycle related thing,
Good touch and bad touch, for her had been everything..
And about anything more she knew nothing...


She kept weeping and repeating,
" I didn't get a wound, but its bleeding "
When truth infront of her did lay,
She wondered about the number of days it would stay!
And repeated the thing again,
" You serious, every month the same pain? "


Entire family cherished, and took care of the little princess with ' eggs'
And the girl still did lay confused, with if kids are born from the tummy,
What has it got to do with the hole in  legs?

Say my name
Say it gently
Use your words
To caress me
Speak your thoughts
Speak them out loud
Confess your love
Amidst the crowd
Scream your wishes
Scream your dreams
Make your reality
Better than it seems
Whisper your pain
Whisper your fears
Release the tension
Wipe away your tears
Open your mind
Open up wide
Let my love in
Let me inside

Although all poets write well, only those becomes popular who learn to respect the work of others..