The more concretely

you tell a story, the less --


you'll be understood.

There was a little boy
who was so sad and so scared
all he could do was be grown up all day
(or as grown up as he knew how).
That was how he could
keep wading through the sadness and
climbing over the scariness
while keeping his eyes on the important stuff
while keeping his mind off the sad and scary stuff.

But eventually he got to end the day, and
that’s when he turned off the light and laid down.
That’s when the sadness and scariness grew louder -
so loud that his eyes couldn’t stay on the important stuff,
cos they were closed.

In fact, it was in his sleep
that the sad stuff and scary stuff grew more important
and the other stuff
(you know, the friendships and the purpose-ness),
well, that became like a dream
– and not a good dream.

The weird thing was that
the more he lay with his eyes closed, and
the more he got to rest his eyes
on the sad and the scary,
the more tired he got and
the harder it got
to lift his eyes and
to lift his feet and
the easier it was
to roll away.

If that had been the end of the story,
then it would have fed the sad and scary
and the boy would have never got to
lift his eyes and
lift his feet ever again.

So, we can’t let this be the end. Cos if
‘it will be alright in the end’
and it isn’t alright yet,
then it’s not the end, is it?

So, let’s all write some more.

By my life’s imposing conclusion;-
My poetry will all be an additional storyline
It’s words remembered; my memory but forgotten
Surely the beginning of someone else’s inspiration
-Of course, in the middle of their new found saga
  
     And by that, I shall be content.

A sorcerer doesn't

need a wand or other stuff --


Words are sufficient.

And you squeeze my heart like a trigger;
a gun for a mouth; every word is a bullet piercing
at me with your deadly, and gripping love
You appear as a wonderful monster; roaming
in the dark; an unforeseeable future, focused
on a never-ending hope, that you and I shall last.

Our words become ash, skin will turn into dust, bones
become rust- my rib will one day disappear; the one that
belonged to your side. And by my side; you were my
much-loved poem, keeping me company, as all my old
lovers are above me.

Your very smile is an island that I’m stranded on,
your bright skin is the sun; our love a message in a
bottle, filled with …our words, kisses, voices, messages,
poems, verses and secrets untold.

And for one last warmth of your lips,
I’ll feed into them like a flame, and being burned
by your love. Goodbye, goodbye to us, and goodbye
to our love.