Who am i
Before i was born
What was i doing
In the mysteries of the unknown
Do i have a name
Where do i call my home
Did i say goodbye
Before i was gave birth by my mom.
Why did i chose my parents.
Who carried me first,
Who cleaned me up,
Who wiped my first tears
Who were my first friend
Why do i have to be in haste
Why do i have to die
Where are you taking me to
Am i going home ?

We are descendants of legends,
making our own ones.

I appeared that one random day some years ago when the stars were galloping.

since then each step I take picturesque the clip I've been rolling.

I remember that day when mom told me that to live was to encounter a blessing and struggling was the way we inherit a trophy for generations that lived.

I was deceived by the unrealistic heroism of many martyrs who died before me.

in fact, the spotlights were not meant for me as I expected. fate put me far removed from any truth I’ve worshiped.

some days I move in urge and fly very high. I heal my wounds and forgive people who randomly get me to taunt.

some days I scream without words and get drowned in my own nightmares. I drop death thinking of any chance to collect my own mythical strikes.

after all, I still reopen my eyes to a bizarre sight; I wonder if it is the answer to all the prayers I've murmured in my solemn nights

or perhaps it is just the doom I've been daydreaming about all the time.

of the truths spoken and the marks of my barefoot steps, I pledge for an eternal gaiety. And a place of my own kind.

an unrepentant poet
walks among the world
seeing and not believing
anything perceived

he dreams of inconsistent
anomalies of existanse
sees to the end of time
in imaginary universe

and no one says a word

the story begins in this sentence
and ends when you stop reading
you are the creator of all that will be

the door opened and you were born
did you knock or just drop into
it does not matter you are here now

male or female or something else
life was needed and you became it
walk if you can is a metaphor

the world is but a reflex
and dreams are made by god small g
a mess of confusion is it's problem

What would I do
If I could live this life again?
What would I do?
What would I say?
Who would I be?
Not much.
Not much.
I would be me
I would be a new born baby

Above all things,
I know bitterness
because I was born
without having been asked.

One dies one born
has one forgot
life is not gone?
One comes opens
a caged bird's door
eye on for
a new destination
life goes on!

I write sometimes.
I read sometimes.
The day is going to be well.
But I feel I am always broken in many unspoken words.
Many poems were written.
Many feelings were poured in many cups of the day I spent too much.
They said, you are overthinking to yourself.
They said, you let more anxiety fill your brain.
I said, maybe this is the last time I will do.
Maybe I will forget the past and hope everyting is going to be fast.
I write sometimes.
I read sometimes.
Everyday I get I always heal myself.
Maybe I was born.
Again.
And again.
And maybe,
I will die everyday too.

There is no poetry that will stop being written because every day a young poet is born and love is born every day.