there he was
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase

both stuffed with
papers

“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
said the shadows that
watched from the
windows
of nearby buildings

He didn’t like the
sound of their
voices

but he sighed
and dragged his
tired feet along

they were almost as
tired as his soul
and just as hurt

He'll have to live on the
streets,
for the town
was overpopulated

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

Let me be your own artist,

I'll change your
scars into stars,
the tears in your
eyes into butterflies
and your sufferings
into colorful
lanterns,
let me paint you
with the colors I
have, let me write
you using my
blood, my love,
You'll be the best
art and poetry
and our love story
would be the most
beautiful tale that
will be written
in the history.

.
”If you are to love,
love freely and unburdened
by the tombstones
of past miscalculated regrets.”

But the heart
inadvertently beats
to the mismatched rhythms
of a hundred
caged doves’ wings.

I know you won’t read this
and I know you won’t care
but I will tell you what it was like.

It was blurry.
it was slow
but time was running fast.
It was dusty feet
and dusty souls.
It was feeling nothing
and then all at once.
It was hating you
to drown the urge of hugging you.
It was writing a poem
and post it
wishing you will relate to it.

But who cares,
you don’t.

At the end of the day
Say nothing
Because
It is the end
And over