I’m afraid
and I write without
the second-thought
of the word following this
or the word before that
or the correct use of vocabulary
or the eloquence in the structure
of these lines ,

inconsistency has drowned me
and I’ve sold my soul
to love,
to you
and you’ve destroyed me
and my poetry
and all the art I once
found ease in creating.

what a sight,
we see,
when,
with eyes, wide open
we love someone;
from the place of truth,
in our hearts.


it is, beauty incomparable,
enigmatic, eccentric,
sometimes unbearable.

it is, a labyrinth unravelled,
a road yet travelled,
a sojourn for sighing soul.

it is, awe inspiring,
death, defying hope.

it is, kindness and patience,
a forbearing of ill will.

it is, awkward and
uncomfortable
and the revealing
of family secrets.

it is, showing up,
showing off,
antics,
awesome and terrible.
and hell's bell's,
ringing out the doomed
damnation,
of carefree days
and liver
destroying nights.


it is, heaven,
when, you know
the love that is.
but remains unspoken.

it is, every aspect of
daily life,
given extra,
shine and polish

it is, ever forgiving strife

true love is life
and
life is love.
the other stuff,
mere, broken tokens,
spilled upon cobblestones.

It scares me
to know that I loved someone
three years ago
and feel the same no longer,

that you love me now
and perhaps
a year from now
love someone else.

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

often; a wave of ideas
and emotions hit me, drowning me
as I lose breath
and reach out for a pen
to spill the ink,

only to find
that the ink is
cheap and dry
and has been forgotten
so I float again.

I cannot read you a poem so good
for I can write none,
nor play you a song so tuned
for you’ve heard better,
nor write you a letter so accurate,
for my language cannot convey such -

such flame in my chest,
spreading as fast as forest fire
when the thought of you meets me
behind my troubled thoughts
you sweep, as heavy rain falls
on Amazon.

I remember laughing during class
when everyone thought
I was mocking someone
when in fact
I remembered you
and something you said.
making me giggle,
forming an instant smile on my face.

I remember walking on the pavement
looking to my side
re-imagining us
discussing things we wouldn’t discuss
with anyone else.
or at least, with very few
and you’re of those few.

I remember waking up early, wondering
if perhaps I did
because you like the morning
unlike me
for I love the dark
but maybe, I’ve learnt to like the light
because you adapt
to what the people
you love, love.

I miss you now
when you’re so far away
and I cannot call this a poem
because It is not,
it is but jumbled sentences:
thoughts that I meet daily
when I remember you.

My mother told me
that I seemed carefree
and I was thinking of you,
I gave in a smirk
and told her there are no worries
that I was happy
when to myself
I knew it was because
I had remembered something
you said,
making me smile
again, as every day.