a thousand i miss yous linger
in the sky, stubborn clouds that they
are. but i am not tall enough,
nor can i reach high enough to
bring them down and spill them upon
the floor for you. so they remain
there, unspoken, unrained, unloved.

reading a book,

felt like conversation,

with thounsands,

who can relate.

How can I pour my existence onto the page,
To stand firm, true, inviolate;
Like this arrangement of ancient bark?

My words written in their time,
Shed themselves like autumn leaves,
Tumbled and turned by the winds of the creative mind.

Will they whisper to those who would hear,
Of greener times and memories unfurled,
My secrets, my shame, my joy, my sorrows?

To be picked up and appreciated for their sunset colouring,
Swept aside with impatience as a trifling incidental,
Or trampled to dust by the pell-mell of rushing feet.

And which, dear reader, are you - a collector, a sweeper, or a trampler?

My niece

Hugging me tighter

Than usual;



Words spill

On my heart

Making a mess

My mind

Will not erase;



Kissing me sweet

Clenching my fists;



The big things

Rest on that microscopic grin

On the right corner

Of my lips --



That is where you lie,

In the space between

My lines.

When
my
poetry
fails
I just
write
your
Name:______

I will never write a poetry about you.

Because what I wrote were my unsaid pains.

Uncried tears.

My broken self.

And I don't want you

To be one of them.

In this world,

Where letters are my warriors,

Words are my wounds,

Sentences are my scars,

And a poem is my pain,

I'll forever keep you

As my whisper of peace

Beyond cold wars.

As my tap of rest

Beyond tiredness.

As my click of happiness

Beyond grief.

Because

You are way more than

Those unbearable pains.

You are way more than

Those uncurable wounds.

You are way more than

Every poetries I wrote, baby.