PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I have shocked myself
mired in stanzas of my poems.
Even love was revengeful.

What do you want to convey
when you are changing the nouns?
Flesh was going to win the brain.

Buddha will be born again.
Will ask me to strip slowly to show
me cuts and bleeding wounds.

Summing up life,
I wanted to rewrite the pain of earth.
Shocked apathy would cry.

Falling in love with yourself,
your hands had become shovels
to dig a deep trench without war.

I want you to look at me,
sans form and content. A cruel
thought starts playing with death for a poem.

Will you kiss the
flower moon in the ambiance
of peace, when earth sleeps ?

I will ask the moon,
how old are you? A yellow lotus
laughs standing in mud to interpret life.

Think you must.
This light is within or outside. You always
walk with eyes shut to catch the god.

Bare-foot I go near
tomorrow. So much more than love,
poem in a poem trembles.

Like, aspen the goddess
tree, sharing the same root quivers.
There was no storm.

Setting aside the triviality
of daily life, I drag open the funeral
mask to see the mercury planet.

It was the last embrace
of creativity. I touch you to write a
fiction. Freedom comes with a slap.

Your life is in my poems.
Opens like a tulip. You make a
sweet voice, when you dip in me.

My threshold holds back
the agony, but toad stools jump to
sit on the mantle along with Buddha.

When you move away from

yourself, the dream merchant rewrites.

story. Birds in flight stop.

Words and meanings collide.

No one was ready to write the name

of unknown. A collective suicide begins.

Would you read the unwritten

prayer on the wall of justice, when

God had failed in dispensing truth.

When you cross all
the limits, water dries up and
cloud weeps. Where was the moon?

You do what you want
to do. Even violence fears of
your storm and ship wrecks in tears.

Between life and death,
can you go through a hole? When
you are pinned, there is no blood.

What is your desire
when moon burns? Was it a myth
to entice you to become a mars alien?

Where was yester- pain
while picking the roses without
thorns? I want you to bite me again.

Is it psychological
when a ghost writes your name
on a blank paper to win tears?

My poem wants to read
you today. An abstract point has
uncanny entry in thoughts of wayfarer.

Too deaf to listen to the

voice of falling snow. I open the window
to see the moon talking to a black hole.

What a strange thing. A
friend wants to become my enemy.
Both sides of the truth were black.