Being a poet
is both a pain and a privilege.

All you do is
bleed your emotions
on a thousand pages
while people sing your praises
for ages.

emotions
sat heavily on my chest
squeezing my heart
and burning my head

so i piled three pillows
on top of one another
and tried to scream
the emotions out

nothing changed
except that now
my throat hurts and
my pillows are concerned

so i laughed
at my failed attempt
and wrote a poem about it

29.04.20

when moon rise,
      you will shine
      be who you are
      and you will shine

i love you,
i want you,
but i can't have you.

birds are chirping
flowers have bloomed
love is flowing
but yours is fading

i bathe in serene
sleepy mountainside ledges
kissed by lips of fall

it was a cold night.
    i have no shelter.
    cold, tired, and hungry.

you were so down.
    heart's been thrown,
    looking from afar,
    wishing on the stars.

it's already late.
    you, walking around,
    found me on the Nile.
    too blue,
    but happy to be found.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)