Her soul spills

Her soul
spills
out of her body
and she does not know it

she does not know
how her eyes
light up
like looming mountains
touching
the brightest stars

and that poets
only write
what the wind
whispers
to her hair.

In Search of Beauty [Part I]

He hated the world

So much

That he hated himself

He despised the world

So much

That he became the world…

I

He was not born

to be a writer

His soul was simply broken

into pieces, like the alphabets

And so he writes

hoping that he might know

who he was

or who he is

that as he puts back the pieces

of his soul

he might form a word

or a name

to call himself

It is true that one may find wisdom

when one is lost

but it is also true 

that one 

can be lost

forever

He writes 

under the light 

of the full moon, re-creating beauty

with a quill, parchment, and tears

while she is asleep, dreaming the wildest dreams

perhaps of some far-away kingdom

catching butterflies

and the whole world

sleeps with her

Indeed, he was not born

to be a writer

He was only

broken

into one.