poetry – My letters

Unfinished

Scattered around my half-made bed

are books half incomplete.

Half of your painting now

stares me down from the easel,

Half of the unwritten poems

await in the abandoned sheets.

That’s me,

unfinished.

Half of my….

Settled soul

I am happy with my three best friends,
my cramped-up wooden house
in a small town,
a thousand inhabitants
my neighbour, a war hero,
another one, a priest,
apples grow on trees,
vegetables flourish on the ground,
fishes fly in the lake nearby
and the birds swim through the clouds.

You may have gotten the jist by now,
I am not an explorer.
I don’t crave to travel the universe
I am a lost soul that has just settled.
and I am just learning to love my space.
I have just started to build my fences,
and decorate my walls.

So let me rest, world!

Don’t demand or expect an adventure
Don’ t lure me with space travel,
for me, travelling to the next town
is already a great voyage.

I live in my own little universe
and I don’t care about your
hunger to strive,
your attraction with growth,
with expansion of horizons,
with moving out of comfort zones,
reaching out to the stars and more.

I am satisfied with my own.

So let me rest, world!
Don’t demand or expect an adventure
Let me just enjoy the stability,
the tranquility, the steadiness,
the constant, the peace.

Halves

I was the beginnings
and you were the ends, 
I was the sunrise 
and you,the sunsets.

Weren't we both 
just half written poems,
waiting to meet 
and be one song. 

Weren't we both 
the last two puzzle pieces 
waiting to be chosen
 and be finally solved. 


Darling, 
tell me again..
where did we go wrong?

Brave

In the dark secluded forest
that eery midnight,
Grey clouds conspired
to cover up all the bright.

And I found myself
surrounded by my own wolves,
howling, maybe even cheering
for me to escape my own mind.

As it started to drizzle a little,
my heart began to pour some more.

Turned my worn out torchlight on,
the one that dad gave me
with a handwritten note,
'Always be brave'.

Something,
that I could never quite be in the past. 
and they would always be there 
to rescue my soul that couldn't last 
the wrath of the midnight winds. 

In the dark secluded forest
half past midnight,
I illuminated the road ahead 
with my worn-out torchlight 
only to find my own shadow
leading me into the depths
of nowhere. 

Maybe it's not 
the animals that lurk,
or the silences of the leaves  
the uncertainties of the woods.
the humming of the bees,
the shaking of the earth 
or the dancing of the dirt 
Maybe it's not 
the majesty of trees 
that scares me. 

Maybe the only thing I fear 
is me. 

___________________

Only a poet can bring meaning to the meaningless

Beauty is inane without the observer.

Like the moon,

It’s just a rock spinning around in space,

but our ability to envisage beauty brings meaning to it’s craters and it’s glow.

The poet writes–

‘The moon changes it’s shape every night, sometimes being there completely, ko sometimes sharing a part of it and sometimes hiding in the dark, but it is never distant, it never abandons you’ –

———

Beauty and the beast

Why should I write about the flowers,

the sunset and love?

Words that romanticize beauty

have created fictitious expectations in the lover’s mind.

Write about the thorns,

the eclipse and betrayal.

Let them know that beauty is a spectrum.

Words that romanticize darkness will harden the lover’s soul.

Beauty in Ruins

There is a certain beauty in ruins,

In abandoned ships, rusted to its core

floating gracefully on still water.

In empty ferris wheels

stealthily revolving encore,

determined to defy newton’s laws.

In silent mansions with marbled floors

inhabited by the screaming ghosts

of the past, of moments that didn’t last.

In broken vinyls stuck in a loop,

echoing the same distorted tune

claw marks all around the dead record,

now it begs for mercy.

In sunsets, In cloudy days

In thunders, In storms

In heartbreaks, In betrayals

In soaked pillows, In loneliness

There is a certain beauty in ruins,

at least for an artist.

2 am

2 am,
memories of you coincide with the
ticks of the second hand,
cross-legged on my sofa bed,
I can feel the fantasies play over my head
As the dim table lamp flickers,
trying to convey a message in codes
I couldn’t understand.

The breeze outside moves like waves,
hitting and missing my skin as it sways,
The sparrows lay quiet, the stray dogs tired,
the clouds tiptoe with no slippers on,
like a thief that has retired.

And the gentle moon abide,
let the clouds steal all of her bright.
A soft lightning illuminates the night sky,
a silent thunder sparks far from my sight.

I have been dedicating my 2 ams in your memories, darling.
And the 2 ams have been dedicating it’s tranquility to me in return.