Sitting on the beach,
a gray day,
her in my lap.

An anonymous beach,
in Tuscany.

My mind speaks,
it won’t stop.

My mind
wants to write.

There are poets
who never fell in love.

There are people in prison
who committed no crimes.

White gloves
hiding atrocities.

Strong people
with broken hearts.

There is love
within heartbreak.

Religious men
who don’t believe in God.

Judges of life
with their own transgressions.

Thinkers who do not think,
and lovers who do not love.

There are free minds
trapped behind walls.

There are vagabonds
more cultured
than your professor.

There are salty rivers,
and love that never meets.

There are those with millions
in the bank,
yet empty hearts.

Today,
I am grateful
to have found you.

could you imagine what it’s like to not imagine?
to feel a feeling, before it ever happened?
to tell a breeze from a beast, waiting in the cabin?
to conclusively deny the myth of the dragon?

could you ever really know the false from the true –
having lived so little in a world so new?
could you live with love, when all you have is you?
could you assure the blind that the sky is blue?

could you split the atom, and fill the void –
with a hate so violent you were meant to avoid?
could you find your peace, amidst a frenzy on steroids?
could you smother the fire with which you toyed?

could there ever be a time you’d know for sure –
if you should let go, or endure… a bit more?
could you think for yourself, with thoughts obscure?
would you dare to tell your child - ‘you’d better mature’?

Betrayal lurking,
In hope of novelty,
Like news carried by the wind,
Blaming indifference,
Breaking the convention
Imposed by society,
Following rules
Indifferent to the heart.

We seek the reason
That "corrupts" emotion.
To be human is to seek reason,
Hiding from sensation.

To succeed and fail,
To run and fall,
To rise and lower,
To cross,
To decide,
To fix and depart.

Here lies the break
In reconciliation,
In the absence of trust.
Love forgives,
But for how long?
Here’s the issue:
The discontent,
The restlessness,
The blessed novelty.

Would we have arrived here,
Without this search?
I don't think so.
What is normal?
What is predefined?
And by whom?

Betrayal is normalized,
A disruption of trust
From an abnormal union,
But natural to the essence,
Like rivers that flow into the sea,
Waves that break through cliffs,
Eagles that migrate and spread,
Devastating tsunamis,
Storms that ravage.

Ah, commitment, pact,
Agreement, alliances,
Necessary for balance,
But inattentive to temptations
And the shocks of passions,
Stronger and older
Than human wisdom.

every day, he looked out the window,
his inhibitions toppling over like dominos;
he gawked at the blackbirds, all the same:
he could not tell a friend from a foe.

he never thought he’d go so far -
as to slay ‘the raven’ with a crooked crowbar;
his conscience dripped with sins, and rose -
a thorny heap of fallacies, charred.

he blamed the world for all he was;
convinced in his soul that he had a good cause:
it wasn’t enough to redeem his faux pas, so -
he bore the tag of an ill-fated outlaw.

of all the names, by which he was called,
who knew - one day - he’d cease to show up?
a child dead of his innocence, who
never learned how to -
as they say -

‘grow up!’

pulverized by desolate winds;
brutalized by ungodly kings;
capsized by the violent waves;
neutralized by the scorpion’s sting.

terrorized by the thoughts of morrow;
legitimized by a trademark of sorrow;
authorized to live in vain;
generalized - like the streets,
and the boroughs.

synthesized by the alchemy of remorses;
romanticized… like the dark horses;
mesmerized by the notion of vengeance -
hypnotized by even darker curses.

digitized by the ways of future;
mystified by metrics, and conjectures;
specialized in the pursuit of reality -
'civilized' by the grand architecture.

Grey trousers with holes but few compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other, with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining on the fiery skylight.

it looks
he took the rights
never thinking
the same turns
make a spiral

The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; that head's imagination or its deep void can’t be less terrifying.

the pale eyes
were toneless
—one might take
them for blind—
but underneath flesh
and inside the hollow heart
sits a little blue guy
whose chirps
aren’t recognised

The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.

still ******* air
and as alive as any other

There is no secret meaning to life,
Nor is anyone special.
To be honest, I don’t really care.
I’m not too fond of fate,
And I never wanted to be special.
I simply wish to live,
And create my own purpose.