Give me an electric guitar and I shall light up the sky!

Waiting for something to happen, but I feel so good,

I wonder and then again, I would lies,

If I did not know why my haemoglobins glow in the dark!

I am so far I sometimes wonder if I shall ever comeback.

But for what?

That the question who has been ra ttlingthe back of my mind!

Reality taste rather bitter and has no colours,

Just a plain texture, fill with the same pattern!

As I draw on the kitchen table!


Remember me mummy,

I was so quiet then, I would never say a word,

I was almost deaf to the screams,

And my silence was so loud inside me!

I wish I could have stand up, but I was only a child!


So I kept drawing stars,

In a black sky, multicolour stars,

Perfect on the paper,

Proud I would give the same sketches to my teachers,

I wonder if they knew, the meaning of those?


Each ones was a words,

I kept silence, while I try to loose my vision,

I truly live like some creeple child,

No visual concept, no voice, no ears…

I though this would last forever!


Looking back, I was already lost in my world,

Mystical and magic.

While all along we were under the treat of his brutality!

I knew so young to keep secrets,

But secrets kills is it not true mummy?


Look at me now!

Oh yes, I have never left this garden,

As a matter of fact, I hold the keys tightly,

And once in a while, I open the gates of hell,

To invite more macabre vices!


So many have try and falls,

To the sense of my sweet orchids!

Feast for the eyes, man eaters…

I never wanted this,
but how can I bring the sun where laid my bones?


Can’t you see I am still a child?

The same one, who would draw stars,

In the darkness I live for ten years.

It was so lonely, I lost myself so often!

Screaming for help….


So I learn to make this wild garden,

A place of love, a peculiar feeling indeed,

Guilty, I guess as sins,

But sins was the blessing,

Who run upon my forehead!


And today, I finally manage to let the rusty doors wide open,

And for eternity it shall be that way!

I trust the hand that will catch me

And call my name,

To take me over the other side!


It would be easy to call it: love.

But I know better!

Sadly, it hurt to think of the word,

The slow decline, maybe?

After all, what has he left me with…?


I look for to the end of the rain,

Tears drop upon my empty bed,

Like not so long, kisses felt from heaven,

Tonight is like any other nights, unbearable!




Author's Notes/Comments: 

there is no lessons or preaching in this, who am i?

the father was a victim who spend his brutal ways on me, the son become him but thank god: Gautama peace...i turned my anger, blood thirsty crazy mind to asian phylosophy and discover the meaning of forgiveness

Morningglory's picture

Yes, I agree with what Muin

Yes, I agree with what Muin said. This piece hit me on a number of levels. Where are you from I am wondering?

Copyright © morningglory

MargoT's picture

something who make u feel

  • if i told you where i come from u would not beleive me, but i am glad the poem touch u this is what i beleive true art is, not beauty, not uglyness but something who make u feel; beauty has many faces!

Visual poet/ Libertine lost in a labyrinth of complexities, methaphors, searching for the essence/ Ink of life/ death to spell my syphilistic words on the page/ screen.       

Morningglory's picture

Agreed. Beauty does have many

Agreed. Beauty does have many faces. There is beauty in all of creation and destruction.

Copyright © morningglory

Morningglory's picture

Oh, and if you told me where

Oh, and if you told me where you come from, I might believe you. Try me...

Copyright © morningglory

Muin's picture

Contradictry, Painful,


Painful, and 



P.s : Life is elsewhere....... _ kundera

MargoT's picture

truly wih u to find the answer

as i was mentionnig to someone early , beauty or uglyness are not art/ creativity etc....i truly beleibe what so intellect assholes call art is ;

  if u see/ read/ feel touch a nerve in you that art, many thank you, as i don t often replied to comments.

i shall check u WORDS tomorrow as it is where i am 5.42 AM !!!!

i should be in bed but the night was ...............inter......resting.

Namaste, H.

Visual poet/ Libertine lost in a labyrinth of complexities, methaphors, searching for the essence/ Ink of life/ death to spell my syphilistic words on the page/ screen.       

Muin's picture

You are right.... Beautiful

You are right....

Beautiful was a reflextion....

And as art cant be categorized , a mind also cant..... No one is a intellectual and at the same we all are.....

Thats why keats made his students rip off the first page of the their poetry books....

As the page ripped off was titled

" understanding peotry"....

I think by now you know what i mean....


P.s: In the End words will consume us....

As for the greetings....

Its Assalaamu Alaikum( May peace and blessings be  upon you)....

Far out..