I believe a good poetry is not about rhyme, it is an act of deep communication.

Poetry is a form of expression, could it be imagination, an emotion, an inspiration, or so many other reflections. A pure form of art with the power of healing. In harmony it connects hearts stimulating the reading mind, nevertheless it means more to the writer.

All things can’t be painted, all things are not visible, and all things can’t be touched. But Poetry does it all effortlessly connecting words to which whole world try to understand, but most of the time, it is misunderstood.

And the poet/poetess is the one, the healer who finds comfort with words.

Water on my fingertips
Slowly it drips
Like watching leaves turn color
In the Autumn skies allure
Drops on the floor
Never as they once were before
Dripping from me, I wait
For time to pass, so innate
As ticks tocks and water drops
Play a familiar harmony
Heart pounding adds to the symphony
Like how the ocean sang and danced
As waves crash over the wet sand
Or the way birds chipped with buzzing bees
As the wind rustled the feathers of a thousand trees
Understand this beauty, holy matrimony
It is a perfect harmony
Hold on to the lyrics sung in the skies above
Listen and hold the music of truelove
Water drips from my fingertips
And all I do is watch it fall as my heart skips
For nature’s beautiful music is hidden
Taken from me as if I am forbidden
Forbidden to love or feel the peace given
It’s return I await, then all can be forgiven

Soft focus is not hocus pocus
It is relaxing the locus of concentration
But staying aware of the state of mentation

It is breathing free
With perfect clarity

It is falling asleep
But waking up to dream

It is forsaking worry
For a flurry of focal points
Getting blurry between the joints

So sink into the fabric of space
Erase the stitches of time
Wrap up in this infinite quilt
Guilt-free equanimity
Silt free liquid purity
Rest in perfect surety
Divest your uncertainty
There is no space ‘twixt you and me
Only particles we cannot see

Why do you see death?
Winter is but the absence;
The mother of life

Left.
It left.
A mark.
Every sigh,
every word,
every moment.
Left.
It left.
A mark.

She told me:
''Coming back,
back to the stars.
Perhaps i''ll find you there.
Until then,
hold on to my hand
even when i have
gone away from you''.

It’s crazy.
Lust and love are not the same.
Yet is one.
A love for lust and
A lust for love and
All of that for you
Is what I want.
It’s what I feel.
But love and lust
Don’t work in harmony.
And neither do we.

Little thistledown
As anxious as you and I
But never ill-judged