Tuesday, February 10, 2015

ME: The seasons to forget us


And the sky will open above you and I
And the rain will pour washing our souls away.
The lightnings will fall over us
Scorching the remains of what we used to be.

And the snow will fall down
Over the dirt with its cold purity
Hide the smell of the rotten
And bury the misery underneath.

And the sun will melt it all away
And none will be left to be found
Under the watery blanket of ice
Not soil – but a blackened stone.

All dried up and forgotten
As if it has never been
For who is to say
If it ever was anything but a dream?


ME: If only would my poems talk back


If only would my poems talk back,
Respond to all the secrets, I have told them…
If only they’d share with me their thoughts
And reason why am I so lonely…

If only would my poems talk back,
Shouted in my face their deemed opinion,
Crush at once my hopes and dream
With sticky fingers from the whitened sheets…

If only would my poems talk back,
Told me that there’s no redemption,
Blindfolded lead me to the edge of reason
And forsake me there to roam insane…

If only would my poems talk back,
Them I would’ve never been so hopeless
For there would’ve been so much of them
                                                                That I would’ve never had to walk alone.