the feeling of art bleeds from my nail beds,
plump from euphoria, drunk off wine that's red.
i feel electricity within my hands.
some have only known it through ***'s command.
my joints swell with anticipation,
the poet's tongue knows no abnegation.
ready to send life through these tired veins.
let emotion take these fraying reins,
and pluck these tendons like piano strings.
hear the way the keyboard clings
with each stanza, each brushstroke.
what suffering could they evoke?
i feel my blood pump through me.
pelted by the rhythmic breathing of the sea.
these feelings crashing into jagged rocks.
breathe in this break from writer's block.

When the moonlight
lowers
i see in the night
a tearful ghostly light
don't know where it came from
can't even get a whiff
but i know
the petunia is meditating
unperturbed
can't really read her heart
can't tell how strong
she actually is
though the frost and dew
have barged in
the angle of the fallen fence
is expanding
but this i know
when the morning comes
she'll be awake
she'll be something different
i know
it must be the sunrise
that is able to mulch and sprout
the most captivating smile.

All trees
dressed in pink
the longings
that were planted here
over the years
I've been faithful
in my visits
approaching gently
quietly leaving
pink and white petals
like devoted butterflies
flapping their wings
to decorate that sky
of memory
beautiful things of the mortal world
finally return
the season of sakura
like my thoughts fluttering about
in the first flush of her romance
the sanctity of this retreat
the pink flames
reflected on lovers' foreheads
fragrances
stored in the depths of time
fly out towards
our love affair.

I can decide if I will let go
and enjoy the moment
with the crepe myrtle across the way
and swing in the breeze with the sunflowers
or
if I will pull the shade of fear over my eyes
and attach to my feet the weight of worry.

Humans are constantly creating
with authenticity.
We have been given the universe-
an abundance of awesome things:
Mysterious monsters of oceans deep
and birds ornamenting trees.
We take these gifts
with mindfulness
and show
what we’ve perceived.

Now the computer
has
become the creator.
But humans
created the machine.
Without our perceived
realities,
the robot has no things.
Nothing to analyze,
digitize,
and pixelate on screen.
It can’t channel feelings.
It can’t express its needs.
It just mimics what it really means
to be
a
human
being.

I never lack an audience
even if it's just one person
i have
the cranium of poetry
humbly poised to be placed high
nirvana in a verse
is not to be flaunted
just like the distant incident of snow
remains far and illusive
only the wind knows
the interstice between the heaven and the ocean
the interstices amidst the words
only time knows
i never lack an audience
even if all the readers
who have come from all bearings
have gone
well, i knew that sooner or later
they will leave too
i just hope that when they do
they don't forget it all like a hangover
that'd be a cinch
i never need an audience
time is always by my side
the one true
underwriter.

I am dumb
with wonder, that I'm
not torn asunder, that my brain and body don't burst, under the
torment of the demon that lives in me.
He longs to be free, struggling clawing, scratching to be released, shrieking at me to write the words that reside inside.
I tried hard to drown him with ***** and Guinness Stout, but he learned to swim.

So once again, we toast the night alone by candlelight, as I read Sylvia Plath while he takes a bath in dark Irish beer. He knows that writing's fantastic, *******, electric, and we *** together as he whispers me sweet prose while doing the back float in a sea of Absolut.
I'm destitute, but he doesn't care, just as long as I share his seed that spills from my quill.
And so, I hear is shrill voice in the middle of the night, screaming, screeching, write *******,
write.

The wind rises
in the courtyard
baring extraordinary
imaginings
faithful oscillations
of space time
evanescence of
life and death
always mutedly
move side to side
the wind rises
the whole range of experiences
of a flower-like butterfly
venturing through
the damp and dusty
it makes the bronze in the night
cry in its reply
a rustling sound woke me up
its the sycamore castle outside
that carries the burden of dawn
the tree is just like a book opened
birds, insects etc are inserted in the pages
i walk into the bones
to eavesdrop on the breath of this minute
to learn its calmness
and indifference
towards the coming and going
of multifarious clouds.