1
my spine is a bridge that burns —
bones most breakable, like memories of
driftwoods
collected as a kid,
i now feed to a bonfire
of blistered cyclamens.

2
my spine is a bridge
of no certain grandeur
nor history.
it burns away
and falls,
quietly in the night,
like an unknown laborer.

some of us die this way.

3
the reason for this poem
evades me,
but the heart must write of its sorrows
undisclosed to the soul.
they remain to be
unrecognized parts
of a burning town.

4
now, i speak in tongues
unfamiliar to myself.
i write a poem i'm bound to forget.
i stand in the baptism
of a child i do not know.
i do it anyway.

5
i bring her driftwoods
from the water, mourning under
a burning bridge;
soon the last beam falls apart
and i fall apart
in a forgettably graceless light
this: a sorrow with no name,
i write it anyway.

this: a sorrow undisclosed.
i tell it anyway.

this: a sorrow unrecognized.
i feel it anyway.

the dusk wastes its pity on me. in its muted retiring lights, i have learned a terrible habit of forcing poems out of my mouth,
when maybe all i wanna do is be as quiet as the wounds nesting inside my head.

pandora opens her chest at midnight:
it is a box left out in the rain,
a wound unstitched in despair for october,
a small voice hushed by forlorn hours.

and dead gods forget so easily,
but
pandora still opens her chest at midnight
and the walls huddle to look at an ugly wound
left open to bleed all over
dusty pink cosmos flowers.
and drapes huddle, too,
to look at a nest of sorrows creeping about,
as though a wake, a vigil,
a somber watch that only ends
with all of my bones breaking.

but dead gods forget so easily,
and dead girls forget so easily,
and i forget so easily
all the aching hours that had kissed my skin
and their graceless, moonlit pull,
and i am left to lie
languishing on soft, breakable spots.

and so pandora closes her chest:
a box to never be opened, a vault behind a frame.
a flash of stray light on a wound sealed shut. safe. secure.
there is no space for conspicuous melancholies.
there is no space for anything —
there is no space for hope.

and the gods forget so easily.

I even read
your famous poems
that many people
have read.

I even read
it many times
and got lost
in it.

I even thought
I might
easily remember
all the titles
of your poems
in every word
and I have also
been able to
understand it
little by little.

I even started
writing poetry
for myself.

I even sat
for a long time
just to think of words.

I even want
to be like you
or maybe more.

“Am I enough
to be able to achieve
what you once
achieved?”,
I tell you
in front of
these poems
of mine.

“I want to be myself”,
he told me in this poem
now you're
reading.

Choke on the lies;
but the truth also hard to digest.
As to hunger for words,
to be fed my worth of their love;
Born by a tone of voice-
A child indeed of bless.

May the excuses be;
as wild as I am to self (Maybe)
Tamed by softest words of love.
But its only in the above;
man seeks truth of Heavens not seen.

So I will be-
better known by my words.
Even if they go unheard;
all these words are my worth.

in the backyard
lighting up a smokescreen
high on all the thoughts
of what once was and could have been

filled to the brim with these emotions
but i don't feel a thing
how tiring it is to always think so much
and still remain the same

concerned for my future, got my mind stuck in the past
barely made it this far as it is how am i  honestly expected to last
but i made it, i'm here
no applause, please, no cheers
this isn't quite how i envisioned it
not how i pictured it
still fighting for control of my life despite everything

The perfect response..

Somebody could be a natural at many things
Like singing or dancing or drawing things
Other people are great at writing things
And I'm good at poetry

I naturally write in verse,
Poetic as I think,
I've even been caught mumbling
Words without any ink.

I'm a natural poet
(and most don't even know it)

I'll always feel in my chest broken Septembers. I am languishing with the days, head first to a point of no return. I am the ghost of an abducted goddess, the one who bled all over saffrons and still holds on to her sorrows. I bid farewell to the sunglow on wildflowers. I bid farewell to daylit copper fields. I bid farewell to golden hours, as down I descend to the sweetest madness, and up it goes to consume me.