PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You cannot count my
sufferings, when I meet lull in zero
holding the infinity of love.

My tethered poems want
to fly away to fill the void of my
sky. Trivialities tend to stop me.

Reading you I want to
sleep with thorns. Who was not
pitiless and who was brutal?

I don't have my home.
Our war was not decisive. My
words would protect you with ripples.

Later on narcissism harbours
painYou unveil the roofless house.
Black birds would come to drop.

The mirror shows the Acheels
heel. How will you dance when the moon
comes to congratulate your collapse?

The wick was forbidden
to burn. Creativity was checked
by manpower for god.

Cleavage was accurate.
The visitors come and go. At sunset
the explicit beauty weeps.

The cheating continues.
Reparation brakes. The bricks
are falling one by one from the temple.

When you forget to
cross the darkness, the moon
declares not to come again.

When your consciousness
leaks, you think separately. In minuscules
the nuance opens the window of pain.

When my love assembles all
the venom in, my lieu of bites, my
colour slowly turns blue.

From the end I start
writing because the beginning
never begins. Poetry betrays.

It is like love. It
never ends. The time sucks the
distance. Your eyes break the heart.

No god is in near
conversation. Deaf and dumb
speak with pain of earth. She burns silently.

I drill a wall of crime
The love birds want to come
to shake the legs of truism.

The label of philosophy
suffers. What was essential to live
in peace without blood forever?

Do you make a room
of embraces? Religion always
drags you to taste the dust.

A sea anemone watches
the expanding bank of turbulent
water to stretch the full moon.

Traveling to no place,
I ask the ash and smoke to go up.
Was there any cure of heart pain?

Who will let go now the
speechless? I want only prayers of
immigrants to hide the sun.

Altered footprints.
Don't be proud. Like an immersive
moon floating on the black sea.

The hate crime prospers.
I open my sacred books. The
greatest thoughts are wiped out.

My school is dead.
A barren land is producing
euphorbia and sadness.

You drink marijuana
and become Orpheus. You are still
alive though dead long back.

Was it serendipitous?
You burn every book and read the
ash and agni. Nightingale sings.

When you look outside,
you are searching inside. The creator
becomes creation in the temple of god.