When we wake up feeling heavy and pass through time less than
steady,
We often say it's just been one of those days,
a day our hearts decide to play the song of a sad
soul,
usually the reason being unknown,
wishing we could feel more grown or stop being grown,
looking to others for the answer,
the cure,
to this longing ache of sadness, or loneliness,
confusion perhaps,
this unexplainable feeling that never fails to stop us in our
tracks,
almost seeming to completely darken our path,
making it difficult to see past, when things will feel more
okay,
today's present,
tomorrow's not even going to last,
so we continue to hold onto that bit of hope that tells us
to not stray and push through all our faults,
suffocate our sorrows with our laughs,
and burn our anger with the warmth of the ones we love,
yet we continue to allow this feeling to have
mass,
enough to bring us down,
for even just right now,
we give it that right to play a part in our
heart, but then again,
I guess it's just one of those days..

We feel exceptionally well in your care
with or without your attention

I see you in my dreams
your presence seems to forever linger
I wonder if you touch her body
the same way you'd trace me with your finger

Go direct to the feeling you want
and you wont get lost in the thoughts you're not feeling
on the way

Mana.
Kahi khoyi khoyi si rheti hu me,
Tu meri ankho m to dekh,.
Tere hi intezaar m baithi rheti hu m .


Har baat tuje batani h muje,
Kuch chupa na rahe,
Yahi socha karti hu me,
Tu ankho me to dekh,
Tere hi intezaar m baithi rheti hu m.

I expect
the day when
Poetry is no
longer forcefully
mulled
over
words,
when we commit
it
as of
us,
when we
reek
of it,
or rather
Poetry
reeks
of us,
not shunned or shunning by
the traps in
word-ings.
We Poets then
will truly spurt
and raise an elegy
off
the skin.

That one faithful day
libraries and others will shed
books,
letters and papers,
like finally autumn
leaves,
our chips into small
encasings
like pearls with shells
their.

And
those who choose us
on the shelves will
receive the reward
of our dragging
into
our depths like
persistent algae,
for
a while,
or forevermore.

And I’ll finally be
able to unveil to them:

“I am one of Poetry’s
revelations.”

For now/
pay the lyrical’s heed/
in its written ways/
by the respect of every/
blank space ending/
before each and every verse/
it brings/

Poetry is capturing a scene, an event, or a deed with your eyes,
Processing it in your mind,
Feeling it in your heart,
Letting go, and
Expressing it with your words.

Hussein Dekmak