The story isn't done yet my dear.
I'm not closing the book.

Poetry is she:
With black eyes
On a white lily,
Enticing to be kissed,
Or may be, sometimes,
A wild buffalo,
In the mucky water,
An instrumental piano
Or The latest
Apple ring tone,
Appealing them
To download,
And after the job
Only clanging I
On the floor,
In blue,
The skimming kite,
The dream of the kid
On the roof
In the golden dusk
Or a drought
Of syrup
When mummy
Scolds at bed time.
I pine to hug her
Each time I see her
In bikini
Though on the screen,
And what do you feel
Is just to wait
Till you say:
I avoid pumpkin
But eat strawberries.

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

i was a slave
a slave for love
a slave slash poet

a poet
who writes none
none but love

a poet who loves
a lover who writes
writes poem full of love

full of love in the past
nothing in the present, but past
in the present full of nothing

nothing but sadness
sad poems
a sad poet