Showing posts from October, 2019

Her soul spills

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

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

and that poets
only write
what the wind
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…


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

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
into one.