PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Like in gendering of flowers
a splendid thing was love poems.
The dummy had become second I.

There was a persistent war
between the destroyed and predators.
Must you eat what you throw out.

Not me, not mine, Take
away your mortgaged trust in magicians.
My life has been scorched by the moon.

Like night- blooming cereus,
you wake up, shattering the empty glass.
In your quiescence, the world would not care.

Who will worship the
fallen god and other angels? Nobody cares
for the planted sunrise in relics.

The purple pain honors
the self made character. I survive
in the shrines of bind patriarchs.

Shall we meet in the
last chapter of the book, where after the
struggle two bodies had become one?

The scenario changes.
We tear and stitch on the walls of our hearts
when you have forgotten to make your eyes wet.

In delirium, I had discovered
you in the waters. Oh my esteem, how long you
are going to break me in horrors?

We are ending in the
hands of love hunters. Salt and
water will not make any ocean.

Living in the galaxy, aliens
killed themselves. Are we moving
in the same manner in challenging the unknown?

You move through my heart,
when I sleep in your pink eyes. O god
how long we will suffer on the moon?

Pardon my poems.
Becoming you I get the pain, raising
the blues. I ask who was the son of god?

Were you real? I
am sifting the words to appreciate
suiciding not by flagellation.

The traditions swipe the
dust. Why did I stand in domino?
O death, don't come to kiss me pink.

It was my last blood.
The silence speaks when you would not cry.
You are learning from yourself objectively.

The speed of depression
was increasing. Amnesia comes in search of self.
You will make your own universe.

There was a queer touch
of oedipus complex. You were irrefutable.
Heat was on. Were You steadfast?

Gathering the mist from
your eyes, if a kiss would speak.
You belong to the world of curves.

Sun was polygyny. Moons
will meet in winter solstice, unmoving
night. Snakecharmer remains calm.

My house has no one
except me. Dots and dashes create
a hermit. Nothing was left to celebrate.

I was in trouble, learning
Ars Poetica. I am writing for the beach
where the moon meets the lake.

You would not say, but
be. It is very difficult to write with your
blood on the paper of love.

Not quite a suicide, it was
sacrificing your head, severing with your
own sword, for the mistakes of god.

On the way I was
happy to meet green valley. Your eyes
were sparkling. Words had no meaning.

Who was wounded by
flowers, I ask. Standing under the
cherry blossom, waiting for honey bees.

You are lingering now, in
shying shade, Why love in autumn
morning proposed, let's do it?