I know you don't care
but again, a part of you does
So, here I am once again
telling you tales of all that I was.
There was a man in my life
who now, maybe left
but I still see him crystal clear every time I close my eyes to blink.
He still laughs out loud like a careless little kid
He still walks his way into stranger hearts
just to experiment, yes
He does not love
But I don't know what made me fall for him
Whatever it is, definitely it ruined me
in the most beautiful way, in the most terrible way
I am devastated at what he made of me.
He ran past me on Monday
On Tuesday, he took the trouble to look at me
He smiled at me on Wednesday
and on Thursday, got me head over heels
I smiled at him back that evening
Friday, I don't know why he said 'please'
He kisses her before me on Saturday
and Sunday, he comes to check on me.
He drew me wild and crazy
I forgot who I am.
The best of all the story is that
Every week he still plays his game
Holding my heart in his palms and watching me writhe in turmoil
but I still breathe in the pain
Smile at him when he wants me to
I know he is a disgrace to planet earth
but at least, he troubles me to the extent of joy and bliss.

More than love,
sometimes it is
the fear of being alone.
Because loneliness
creates a haunting echo
of our silence.

Isn't that why
we seek broken things,
and broken men?

So that we
fix instead of break
at least for once.

So that we
leave our signatures
in the loosely filled
cracks and scars.

So that they
cannot recall life
but after we set
their hearts beating again.

So that every time
they take their clothes off,
they can see us
sewed to their skin.

And be proud
to call it ours.

The poet is not a writer,
though she uses words,
the difference lies in the sentiment,
when he writes a book,
he writes it in order to educate and entertain,
when she writes poetry,
there is a fleck of the unseen,
there is a dream-like quality to the poem,
chaotic rhythm trying to make sense of the madness,
a maddening landscape as surreal and cerebral as Eloheim,
and still the poet persists,
but it is for this reason that understanding breaks down,
and while the poem is often misunderstood,
still she writes for others,
fighting desperately for a cure,
a cancer that all things dendritic cannot touch,
a wound that runs unabated through culture and the human imagination alike,
she writes poetry for future generations,
for her children to read,
leaving the fire lit aflame in the hearts of the next generation,
but each generation fewer and fewer take up the charge,
fighting the good fight is obsolete,
and so it is for the few to tacitly and tactically,
with a tactile touch,
fix the accumulation of those who came before.

I am not a poet,
I do not write for the greater good,
I write for myself,
for the well-being of the being in my head,
for the scrapping in the derelict corners of my mind,
grey matter splattered on false sentiments,
lies and truths mingled betwixt cortex and stem,
a tree burgeoning upward,
and so I do not write for you,
but for myself,
for I am no poet,
lost in rasping of my own words,
in tranquility I fester,
for I owe you nothing,
and from beneath that pretense,
I hang.

I would say that the death of the poet,
is the death of language,
though art fell victim long ago,
and so I find solace in its falling leaves.