i cannot, cannot carve myself
into a stone; as a mind set in stone
and all of it's memories, are made of gold
as i'm buried in the dark,
like all of the seeds of my words
i spread so many in the world, hoping
one day some wisdom would grow
longing of a day, a day
that I find my composition as a poem
but what is even a poem,- a piece of
writing; i'm a piece nowadays, with an addiction
to a scanty diction
an imagery i myself pretend to imagine,
and a passing time of passion in a tone
of passive
it's me. no it's we,
it's they who try to be them
it's all of us; related- but our words'
seem not to be so relative,
these days i a poet cannot, cannot relate
to my very own poems ..... ......
