I want to pour myself on page
But I come across a cold landscape
the spark of electricity from me
attunes with that of the pc
In this digital world ,romance is lost
ink and paper relics to a insta post
Information overload cataclysm me
And I dont know how am I supposed to be
In the fringe of my consciousness my thougts reside
elusive,fleeting and hard to abide.
The cursor blinking mocks me
And in anger inspiration evokes me.
Maybe I ll make him my muse
And get inspiration whenever I choose.
This is how my poem is made
Like an emotional grenade.

My face is ugly
My legs are short
But she leans upon me
For her child support.

shostakovitch had an itch
a sliver of shrapnel in his brain
left over from world war one

it was his wish
that it should remain
it was his inspiration

we are all exiles of our past
said he and his waltz no.2?!
what a lovely refrain..!

Said Igor Stravinsky

I knew a fellah called
Henry Dumbell
His son changed his name by deed pole
And died in a skydiving accident
Six months later.

Shadows dance along walls
Cold, undulating fire
Threatens to suffocate
My thoughts,—I go on walks
Outside, the golden leaves
Know how to be better.

A dormant forest sees
Balance between forces,
Ever-changing seasons,
The purposeful movement
Of critters and giants.

Is the forest moral?
Wolves know moderation
Better than most of us.
My reason breaks:
Do humans still bother
With being good
These days?

If you could stand
On the spot
Where you now sit
From the time that it formed
Till it didn't exist
From rock
To field
To lane
To home
Built and rebuilt over
Like
A temple of old
Could you feel
Those that have dwelled there
No matter how fleeting
All the joy and the pain
Every embrace and beating
Each one slowed down
So poignancy crushing
Then seen as
A speed run
To infinity rushing
What would you take
From the eternal lesson
Either
G*d
Or the Universe
With your head surely  messing.