You're a fighter,
Got that fire,
When they thought you'd fade away.

Hold a fist up,
As you get up,
Feeling stronger everyday.

I SHALL cry God to give me a broken foot.
  
I shall ask for a scar and a slashed nose.
  
I shall take the last and the worst.
  
I shall be eaten by gray creepers in a bunkhouse where no runners of the sun come and no dogs live.
  
And yet-of all "and yets" this is the bronze strongest-
  
I shall keep one thing better than all else; there is the blue steel of a great star of early evening in it; it lives longer than a broken foot or any scar.
  
The broken foot goes to a hole dug with a shovel or the bone of a nose may whiten on a hilltop-and yet-"and yet"-
  
There is one crimson pinch of ashes left after all; and none of the shifting winds that whip the grass and none of the pounding rains that beat the dust, know how to touch or find the flash of this crimson.
  
I cry God to give me a broken foot, a scar, or a lousy death.
  
I who have seen the flash of this crimson, I ask God for the last and worst.

Why is it
That you only look
for stars
When there is no moon
And it is dark

Why is it
That you only know
what you had
When it is time
to say goodbye

Why is it
That the things we have
Always have to wait
While we seek the things
We might never get

Why is it
Among the greenery
of the spring
We forget about the autumn leaves that flew away

Why Is it
I have always grieved
for loss more strongly
than I ever
Felt the love

Why is it
That I always write about things
When it is a little too late
And they are already gone;
Their meanings belittled



Why is it
We are too busy wondering
why someone loves us
Instead of confessing
we feel the same


Why is it
We stare at a moment
till it slips
right out of  our hand
And blurs into a forlorn memory


Why Is it
That we wait
to be sure
Till a chance becomes
another what if

The universe is in constant equilibrium,
This much is basic.
But most fail to see it in the dark corners of humanity.
They fail to notice that there is a sigh of relief for every gasp of horror, as if the air goes from one pair of lungs to the other.
We reject the idea that for every happily ever after, there is a pair of broken hearts, as we'd rather stay where we are than move to where we need to be.
We fail to see that we need as many dreamers to see the possibilities as doers to make them reality.
Without one, the other cannot exist

Four years and his room is untouched.

I would love it that way

For years!

Stays ***** and span
The memory of my old man.

The southern window side of the bed
Where he laid his head

The eastern window that broke his sleep
With the sun’s first peep

His snapped photos on the wall of west
That ache my chest

On the northern wall the clock
That still of his time talks

His divan forlorn
Resting cold from his last morn

In each bric-a-brac
His touch his track

In ticks and creaks
His memory speaks.

An illusionary sleep
Has taken over every soul
Eyes wide open
Yet the vision is blurred
Every step is a stupor
Across broken paths
Not an inch of freedom
Spaces are traps
Detached from the soul
Every waking hour a tribulation
Truth swept under the delusion
Under an unknown spell
Magic wand instructs every move
It’s time to wake up
From an illusionary sleep

When you are a poet
you don't place yourself on a pedestal
don't spit venomous hate
think fellow writers are dismal.

When you are a poet
you don't feel a superiority
fellow writers you gleefully berate
make yourself perversely witty.

When you are a poet
your heart is a little more wide
you don't fume and fret
readers are not on your side.

If you are a poet
you know better than to be arrogantly vain
don't carry ego's sinful weight
but let your art pour through your pen.