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I write about you as if doing so will make you real
Haven’t met you, yet I know how you make me feel
Or maybe the reality is I have and the want is from memory
Pen to paper should imitate passion inked on you by me

No doubt that I am foolish, time winds and leaves us scarred
As if contradicting doors with a dozen locks, yet still ajar
Reminiscent of bruised fruit, but the heart only feels hunger
With you satiating the wanting and the ever driving wonder

And the poetry has gone on so long I know not if your real
I have no regrets, as the pen bleeds only what I feel
My mind like a drunken witness with an unreliable memory
With that in mind, I paint dripping words with my visions of you and me

Whoever you may be
The colours to illustrate you don’t exist,
and even if they did I still would miss,
a single shade or hue
that fully captures you.
Better than a Mona Lisa smile,
and Starry Starry Night eyes,
I tried for a mosaic but there was no perfect tile,
nothing could do justice, blasphemy to anyone that tries.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
every gallery should be honoured to have you on their walls.
Too complex for graffiti on the streets,
too heavenly for concert halls.
I can write you; rainbow and tornado,
orbs of faint blue, and a grin of sweet day glow.
Oceanic waves and erupting volcano,
the sun’s ray that came on through,
and the embrace within the wind’s blow.

There isn’t a single brush head I could find,
that could stroke each corner of your mind,
it’s too complex and deep,
it’d be so stunning, it would make all weep.
Putting shame to an Impression, Sunrise
and casting shadows on Lady with an Ermine,
as just a simple picture of your eyes
would last eternally through time.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
not meant for a mere mortal to possess.
Completely perfect personality, traits and feats,
every other human design was just a test.
I can write you, style and rhyme,
blindly bright, natural sunshine.
Digging only at surface to fit into each line,
but there’s no describing what connects it all or the bind.

I know the answer but if you said,
that your favourite colour was red,
I’d let myself bleed out to provide you some paint.
Non acrylic and totally free of lead,
I’d wish for you to illustrate the picture  within my head,
even if the proportions are wrong,
and the lines are blurred and faint.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
completely impossible to duplicate.
Though unfinished you’re still complete,
amazingly flawless in this state.
I can write you; every day till I die,
until the pages and filled and my pens run dry.
Deep like the ocean, but bright like the sky,
and you’ll steal the hearts and breath of all passing by.
wc 6d
poetry has the
ability to affect
us emotionally

poetry is the
most beautiful written art
it makes you feel things

things you have never
felt before, or you have not
felt in a long time

it opens up your
soul and brings back memories
suppressed long ago
To poetry,
poor writing it,
rich in culture
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-xGFbW6A04
I've lost my artistic touch
and I've never felt so lost
Abela arranged the paintings
and prints on the walls
some local artist
had brought his latest work
mainly oil abstract stuff

I liked them
but couldn't afford the price
he wanted
and the shop's commission

I watched as Abela
stood back and studied
the hung paintings

Hopefully we'll sell these
she said
we had a job moving
his last work

I would if I had the money
I said

I prefer the water-colours
that the old lady does
she said
country scenes
like Constable

after we opened up
the shop
and waited
for a customer to buy

but few came
and none bought
the paintings
hanging on the wall

just a print or two
of master works
like Degas or Monet
or Picasso
in sizes large and small

but none bought
the original paintings
at all.
Nova Oct 6
So like
She’s amazing
I’m her friend
But yet she rubs it in my face
Oh, you know, “it” as in “I can draw better than you.”
It’s confusing
We both love art
We have our own style
We’re both quite good.
But still she has more friends
So she gets more popular.
And she rubs it in.
I'm a poet already -
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?


I've got the power -
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they're followed up only by one.


I'm one, one of you -
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.


I'm no one anymore -
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.


You are a poet as well -
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.


We are a nation, mate -
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other's opinions sans dictums.


Tho, I'm your poet -
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.
16.04.2017
My ever question as a poet:
Whether the world is providing me all those imaginary words
Like sitting next to my room window's fantasies-
Or rather, reality is just the jail of my real world,
And my words are just the sunshine for me, behind the bars.
06.01.2018
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