In the Madhouses,
everyone's insanity
is up to the brim
and pitch perfect

they are howling's
and scares of restlessness
but nothing is hidden inside.
it's like the soul
possessed by the heart

all are in the neverland
hallucinating on free will,
waiting for eminent death
with open arms,

but then again,
they cannot earn, be social and
breed for deemed to dangerous
for a society as their minds
are too weak and heart too strong.

I sometimes wonder,
where does the madhouses really lie?
within their boundary or outside?

We are the mere shores
and love is the turbulent sea
separated and united
at the same time.

to yearn to meet
and pass this great sea
is to face and gratify it,
knowing that it's turbulence
can erode us away anytime.

If I could rhyme
whenever I want
Wouldn't I be singing?

a hymn , an ode
a sonnet , a quote
What would I be bringing?

a laugh , a sight
a beautiful night,
Will you be there swinging?

a kiss , a touch
that wouldn't be much
my love,what shall we be drinking?

a broken guitar,
an unopened letter,
a string of pearls,
and a faith in the stars

all were washed away
on the king's tide
and he just watched
the ocean and rain

sweeping a part of them
away forever in the depths
they once had wished for

I have seen time lapsing
and slowing,
as I try to hold back
your tears

I wasn't the one,
you knew it but weren't prepared,
like the land that isn't ready for rain
and young for the inevitable death

still we played with fate,
laughed at the fading dreams
for eternity and what extends
and waited for nothing.

What scares a writer?
I have always wondered

some say it’s the rejection,
some say it’s the creative exhaustiveness,
and some blame the isolation

but for me it is the blank screen
that mocks me for emptiness,
laughs on my in competencies,

In it I see my rejections,
my creative exhaustiveness
and the isolation.

for it contains nothing
and holds everything.