This gushing wind caressing my ears,
is whispering a tale of ancient years,
a tale of a king and his kingdom,
his pupil with happiness and freedom.
But why this tale sounds so dear,
so close to heart and oh so clear?

(Is it the king or the kingdom,
No no no it's the freedom,
Is it all? Then why it feels less,
hey, you missed the happiness,
Yes yes, so that's the thing,
Not the pupil nor the King.
happiness and freedom,
is what makes it so dear.)

So lost in thought,
I missed most of the tale.
Then I paid attention,
to the rest of part.
It had all flavours of a good story,
romance, action, drama,
and deeds of bravery.
Then as the story ended,
the wind was gone.
and left me standing there,
all alone...

we are the masters of self-destruction
trying to numb the pain with wine
and drugs
and smoke filling up our lungs,
we write down in lines with no rhyme
all the things
that make our souls burn and die.
our poems bleed
we drink their blood
then we write again,
listening to stupid songs all night
wishing sometimes we were deaf
wishing we were dead.
we let the doors open
anyone with a knife can come inside
cutting our hearts in half,
any tear is welcome
to create the ocean around us
in which we deliberately drown ourselves.
masters of self-destruction,
our bodies are temples where dying souls hide,
we run till our legs are broken
jump off cliffs
go between sharks' cheeks
forgetting to sleep
to dream
we bleed
we drink
we love
and hurt
it's a madmen game we play
each day
laughing hysterically
while slowly taking steps to the graves
we dug for ourselves,
the masters of self-destruction we are
lunatics
worshiping what's not for us to adore
crying
hiding
falling again
and again.
legs broken,
hearts cut and eaten
flesh ripped from our bones
lungs full of water
ears burnt
our eyes scream
but that's fine
'cause we are the masters of self-destruction
and our life is just a mad game

I was crowded by the beggars

One of them said," Lovers are the melancholic beggars".