My mind...

It must be empty.

It must be sharp.

Hard like diamond

Flexible like water

And cut...

Like a sword I wield in my hands

There is nothing so trepidating
as the emptiness

The blank canvas
the ghost-white page
the empty stage

There is nothing so trepidating
as the silence

Just looking
eye to eye, heart to heart,
for connection

There is nothing so liberating
as the void

the vast white desert of the canvas
the glaring blank of a page
the unadorned blackbox theater

There is nothing so liberating
as the silence

Just the rhythm
of  beating hearts
breathing

There is
nothing

There is nothing
so trepidating

There is nothing
so liberating

it was on
this very day,
that one
among eight
shining stars
was allowed
to grace
upon the
earth.

a soul
whose passion
lies heavily
on music
and the arts.

they truly are
a beautiful,
loving, and
kind sun drop.

ups and
downs,
they've been
through
it all.

The sun comes out
and the moon’s still there.
Hanging there in its desolate despair.
Mornings were never my type.
I could never see my dark friend die.
It’s scarred eternal surface never heals.
The lover in the night sky says-
“Dear I’ll bring the moon for you.”
Not knowing they both had it in them too.
All the darkness yet all that light,
Fading away into the darkness
is what it exists to do.
The glass half empty
or the glass half full
Doesn’t matter cause the moon’s too far.
Too far for a normal’s reach.
Perhaps that’s why it’s there,
for artists to reach.
Yet,
Most of us have been to the moon.
Because living is beautiful art too.

Where are all the great patrons
Throw me a hook you fishers of men

That I might be caught and eaten
by the audience beyond the footlights

That my blood be spilled on pages
and canvas in prescribed portion

Afford me the flame of arrogance
to believe that my own hand
in the fire of creation touches wonder
and maybe God himself

Do we all bleed?
Yes, we all do,
In different forms,
With a simple plead.

As a little child,
We bleed in tears,
With trivial doubts
And unknown fears.

As a writer,
We bleed in words,
Each blank page,
Engraved with inks darker

As a musician,
We bleed in rhythms,
Strumming chords to fathom,
The passion reflected in symphonies.

As a painter,
We bleed in colors,
Reality getting duller,
And canvases conveying brighter ...

We bleed in diverse ways,
For mutual reasons,
To encore unheard, unread, unseen
Piled up emotions...

faithful eyes are restlessly observing the luminous night
an angeldog is sitting on the debris of a former court house
its silky fur is glowing while it is singing a song of the ancient
long mother tongues are licking up all of the words, greedily

the dog's night is a creature and it is alive, serious and cheerful
nobody will be able to spot it with the glimpse of humans
dogs can easily scent its traces, like foul fruits, grasping
animals can not talk but they sense way more than any human

science, arts, music are simply distractions from our inabilities
we have to assure us daily that we have a selective soul
that we observe and recognize the existing to recreate it
goosebumps are a replacement for our lack of scent

poems come, artists go, dogs are better off in silence
a dog's barking is nothing else but a distraction for us
we think we control pets, they know us better than we do
the dog's night is dark by now, asleep with one eye opened