Yesterday you walked across my face,
Something runs down my back.

I don't know how many verses I can use,
to describe what I felt.

My soul fell at risk,
from nostalgic memories.

A whirlwind in my heart,
and a curiosity of my soul.

The beauty of the past,
and in the desert, neither shadows nor water.

Just a little love,
and memories of fairy kisses.

Come bring the bad news.
And tell me all the ways.
You've been feeling blue.

Rest your head upon.
My shoulders.

As we gaze up at the moon.
The night is dark but there's,
Still light to be seen.

You've got a lot of living.
Left to do.

Can't leave your life.
Up to fate.

Hoping you can change.
The chances of the game.

Your life is in your hands,
My dear.

Like the dark it can play,
At being a trickster too.

For a little while you can.
Rest your worries here.

Underneath the stars so bright.
Till the morning light comes through.

Only then when it appears.
I hope you don't feel blue.

If somehow you do.
I've got enough warmth.
For two.

It’s a longing that runs deep
It’s a fire that lights it
It’s a blaze that you seek
It’s a desire that falls neat
It’s a blush that you heat
It’s a lust that you whip
It’s a whisper that feels cheap
It’s a lump that you dip
It’s a tear that you lick
It’s a feeling that leaves quick

It’s a Lover who felt sick

As I stand beneath,
sky's embrace,
open arms,
claim me as its own.

each drop,
cold,
yet warmth blossom in me.

each raindrop,
feels as a caress,
a lover's kiss,
as it drenchs my soul.

They don’t just describe emotions—
They dissect them.
Make you wonder
Why you feel,
And how much.

Some let their pens speak,
Others carry verses within—
Written on the walls of their minds,
Etched into the pulse of their hearts.

Poets are powerful.
They paint sorrow with beauty,
And make joy even more delightful.
They show us the world
Through an entirely different lens.

They can dress poverty in poetry,
And make wealth seem vainly stunning.
They stir our emotions,
Make us love deeply—
And hate just as fiercely.

We’re all born with a poet inside us.
Most just forget to listen.

this intensity: I rediscover
the edge of falling into oneself,
reinventing reality,
pain, blind feathers, sharp teeth, limits
this deficit  of whispering
thoughts can see their end,  their imaginary double
the roots of words translucent
their feedom released
they dismantle non words,
half-truths or nontruth
birds are free to be birds
or dreams of the air
hunger for connection is a hunger for creation
this feeling a vital movement, an undercurrent hallucinating forests
a delicate complexity of vulnerability and necessary innocence
the forgetting is colourless, as a matter of fact
there is no true forgetting, but nature itself invented
a God of mercy