Trapped in paper. Printed. Copied.
Repeated for generations to read,
though few will know the words.
Captured on a page. Do they cry?
Do matching tears fall from both
the reader and the read pages?

When He was born,
He cried into the void of space,
Searching for the comforting voice of calm.

But only silence returns His call,
His tears echoing of the dark edges of the dark.

But He taught Himself to walk,
How to shape something with His own hands,
Then He made a world to answer back.

Down the river, I sink

Bleeding my tears

Mingling with the stream

Seeking a fountain

Of another world

I scream

I cry

I am deflated

I am exhausted


Curled up in fibers

Soft carpet, lining

Edges of a hallway

You come closer and beckon

Solidary merged

Into cement walls

We linger

We dream in a sense

Comforted by one another

Her voice was
Chipped away like
An axe
To
A log

My heart is crying loudly
I am ignoring it unknowingly
It has one million of words to say and scream

Why is this so hard
I am so disappointed.
Looking for light
And still not knowing what the point is.
Everyone is going to die in the end.
We all try to reach something special, my friend.

And till we die there is no correct measurement
To our life and it's success or our regret.

the few parts of life that always tries to break me down; two eyes
red as tailgate lights – I’ve cried too much, now. a cut-open heart,
with these slow healing wounds to lick on; but let them look upon
you, as who you are, before they look you down

as I hold the keys to my human drive, filled with locations, times,
accidents, and monthly repairs – amongst daily commutes of
businessmen, who only take monthly communion – falling silent
to one’s busy ears, the silence told me, a friend is only a true friend
when they stand above being just a part of your peers

still, to any love I give is two loves I give – loving myself, by loving
the hands that crafted me as I am. please excuse my wet wrists –
I’m a tearful man who doesn’t cry much in public.

tell me, what is the sound of a dying flower in my hands –
as it detaches from the bunch of blossoms and leaves?
the postman missed the message for me, that says,
“I’m heaven sent,”as I pictured myself a better man by
now - the mind draws, whatever aroma of heaven it dreams
of, and carries that detached scent

tell me there, Mr postman – did you grow a rose in your
pocket where I grew a small tree in my heart’s garden,
where falling leaves can be heard. if I could use words filled
with fire, I’d be a bonfire of poems burning at my creative
compost. post me on the wall of your memories, as a painting
of those falling leaves

as a darling would tell me I’m too worried about being
a leafless branch – hey there Mr postman, I finally have
the answer

the sound of crushed water from life, is just the sound
of its final tears – and I’ve heard the tears of that flower,
but it was really me crying about my own self - still being
more fragile.

Why do you ignore me

Do my words mean nothing to you

I told you to stop

but you never did




if you have decided

to keep going

then go off your own way

and leave me behind




I want to scream

I want to cry

it was never my intention

to say goodbye




But even with

your intentions

that i never know

of they are good or bad




you made the choice so easy




We tried to ignore our differences

and leave the past behind

but no matter how hard we tried

we just couldn’t take it off our mind




You can say what you want

but why should i listen

when i showed you the darkest parts of me

you tore me apart

and left my heart

broken in two




I tried to be so open

but you just couldn’t accept

when i didn’t think the same thing as you

and tried to turn me

into another version of you




It doesn’t matter anymore

I guess it’s even now

you hurt me

and i hurt you