recognizing the voiceless

Wild as horses on the range,

He had iron and grit,

His work was always lit,

& he had a fire flowing through

his veins

I wonder if all this was meant to be.

If this feeling was meant to fade, why does it grow stronger every day?

Even when uncertainty lingers,

The urge to be in your arms pulls me like a restless river.

My heart dreams beyond reality,

while my mind whispers over my heart’s quiet truth.

And as I learn I must be true to myself,

I still return to the same question,

was this ever meant to be?

What if this love is only illusion?

I can't get hold of what I feel.

How is it that I long for only you,

And why does holding you feel so real?

And if this is only a fragile dream,

why does it steady my trembling soul?

Perhaps not every truth is certain

perhaps some loves are felt

Love in the heart is as a nightingale That sings in a green wood; And none can pass unheeding there, nor fail Of impulses of good.

Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song, Yet let him sing his fill! For other hearts the echoes shall prolong When Love’s own voice is still.

A simple phrase and rule by which i abide.

To love is to let love, is a simple way to say that

To feel, give, and experience love yourself,

You must let others feel, give, and experience love themselves.

Whether its with you, or without.

Whether it concerns you or not.

No matter gender, race, occupation, or class.

You dont dismiss or forbid their love,

Less you never feel loved yourself.

And it goes without say that to love and let love,

you cannot dismiss love that is not between you and a lover.

For the love from a friend is just a real,

And twice as strong.

As a love born in romance.

Love knows no limits, and has no bounds.

To when we feel it, and when its true.

"To love is to let love" says those who know love is wherever we let it happen.

And "to live is to let live" a phrase that is a truth we often refute.

But what we neglect is that we cant live a life where we are happy,

If we spend are lives telling the people around us.

Strangers and friends,

Children and people who dont know who they are.

That they cant chose who they are.

That theres something wrong if they try to show it.

You cannot live your life if you spend it policing and preaching

A "right" way to live.

You cannot live your life is you spend it shaming and hurting

Others who are living the "wrong" way.

There are rights and wrongs in your actions and lives,

But there is no wrong or right way to live,

In a world where roles are assigned the moment you leave the womb.

Where roles are assigned by abratrary traits that you dont chose.

You cannot live your life if you spend it in a way that benefits no one.

Not you nor others.

So to live,

you must let live,

and to love

Boredom for boredom, what is there to do? Along the road, the way of cursive script opens the gates of a hundred other ways. A vegetable soul there is to grasp

the way the wind would do it with the wings of butterflies. Upon the canal bridge if I turn there's a heart that keeps on beating with pollens and with algae. The dry crowns

are tired of protesting; they no longer know where they could possibly find rest… and what if I'm the one who's getting it wrong? And what if it were just the weariness of idling,

envious of natural idleness? A rhymebook made of insects, four circular poses… have the muses changed their trade? Or have they too grown tired

of the same season? But water flows beneath the green of time - through some orange hours and then finally black. Only a slight headache accompanies

the passive creation of time. In front and back the road, the curtain blurs itself into a haze of tedious intents. A spectator who waits upon a cloud

to spread itself across the immaterial meadow of whispers and of dreams - not laws. I barely hold up under the sonnet craft of Petrarch - I have cut away the stations

My love is like a bear in hibernation

Small and cuddly while sleeping

Will hold you with ferocity

But when she wakes up

She's more scared of you than of her own heart

She doesn't know where to start

So she goes back to hibernation

Before she can show you her art

My love is like a lemon shark

Wanting to swim with everyone

But getting jealous when someone doesn't swim with her

Butting her head against your air tank

Not knowing it is how you need to breathe

She is impulsive

But she will bring you to shore when you need

My love is like buried treasure, beautiful when you find it

But when the age of it is shown

Every break in filigree

Every crack In age

Every journal page tattered like a garnished wage

My love is like a gemstone

Faceted and cut

The table wide enough to host others

When the centre is not

Lopsided and heavy it could never fit a ring

But I've worked on it with the hammer of my heartbeat

The pounding of my chest

Bringing the brilliance of the tanzanite to the surface

The sunshine of the darkness

My love is like a fox in the snow

Helping the hunters and gathered who don't know where to go

Making sure they are warm and the rodents don't bite at your feet

But it feels so extinct the winter has no grey to adorn the white sheets

A fox a bear a shark a stone

I feel the weight of this poem in my bones

To grow like an ent and love with all of my limbs

To exist like a Hobbit and follow our whims

To be a part of each other's universe is such a gift

To grow up together like two lilies who eventually won't be able to be apart

'too fast' doesn't exist

Slowing down is a part of racing a tire would blow out if it hadn't been changed

Real love baby is finally a thing I've obtained

I feel it like fox fur, like a tumbled Stone, like diving in the sea with a lemon shark, real love doesn't demand I hibernate anymore.

It doesn't make me crazy

It doesn't make me scared

than this would've been beautiful

given just a little more

more time more attention more.

could be still

gorgeous hair

kissable lips

Edit

Delete

Write

Edit

Edit

Write

Edit

Delete

Pause

Delete further

All I could see was the blood dripping down your bodies, staining the sheets though they were black.

Egyptian cotton I bought from Macy’s. I told you not to get blood on them when your feet had open sores from all the 10k marathons you embarked on.

You and her were carved open. Guts out and everything.

Two lovers who were sound asleep.

You didn’t know our marital bed would be your coffin, did you?

This whole scenario was in my head, too.

I looked up from the froth of my Chai Tea Latte. You and her were sitting across the coffee shop still in love. Still oblivious to the life you destroyed of the woman across from you who was too meek to make a move when she discovered you in her 200 dollar sheets.

Interesting enough, however, you also don’t know that this is my week two of stalking you.

Recognizing your patterns.

Learning your habits.

I read an inspirational quote somewhere that said I needed to stop thinking and start doing.

one hundred and one rain drops

balanced themselves

on

a tautly stretched blue wire

sparkling

like

uncut diamonds

in the

gray mornings

After many seasons, I return

alone upon the old rope cot

on the roof of my ancestral home.

And above me, 

the sky waits unchanged,

vast and patient,

wearing its familiar ornaments

of planets and stars,

the way my mother once 

adorned my world

before sending me away

with tears of joy

in my wedding procession...

.

The roof remembers.

The cot remembers.

The sky too remembers.

Only the hands are gone.

Those hands that pointed upward

and named the wandering lights,

that turned darkness into wonder,

and the open terrace

into my first observatory...

.

No astronomy lessons 

are held here anymore.

The teacher has left.

Or perhaps,

she simply changed classrooms.

She used to tell me

that those who leave us

do not disappear;

they become stars.

And one day,

without ceremony,

without announcement,

she joined them...

.

Tonight, after years,

I finally look long enough

to search for her.

The city never allowed 

such starry meetings: 

streetlights too proud,

glass towers glowing too bright,

their glitter swallowing the old sky.

But here,

the darkness still keeps its promises...

.

As a child,

I would watch airplanes 

crossing the heavens of stars,

following their blinking lights

until they vanished,

dreaming that one day

I too would rise that high...

.

Another plane passes tonight.

And suddenly her voice returns:

“No matter how high airplanes fly,

they must come back to earth.

If you wish to become something,

be the Pole Star,

steady enough

to guide others home...”

.

The cot beside me is empty.

No second bed.

No stories of kings and fairies

threaded between constellations.

Only silence.

Only stars and planets.

And sleep stays away.

I never knew my grandparents well,

perhaps they too

were in a hurry

to become part of the sky...

.

Then, slowly,

something changes.

The loneliness loosens.

I realise:

I am not alone.

All these stars are mine.

One by one

I begin searching among them:

for ancestors,

for known voices,

for forgotten laughter.

And somewhere between

finding my grandfather,

missing my grandmother,

and finally reaching my mother;

my eyes close,

as though once again

she had spread her pallu over me,

brushed my forehead 

with her quiet hands,

and tucked me into sleep

beneath her endless sky...

.

I have a pertinent question-

Quite an important thing:

Are four leaf clovers still lucky

i fall apart

in every place

when i think of your touch

when i imagine you on me

lightly and swiftly

looking into you as you move

moving closer to me

following

my every breath

naturally i’m falling

flowing into you

come

take my breath away

undersharing

ask me now

who are you

and i’ll tell you

i’m a bird who’s got her wings

ask me anything

truth be told i don’t know a thing

but i know loves the way

and it’s all we need

ask me who i am and i’ll tell you

rays beaming life into every corner

laughter sounds radiate my ear drums

the sparkled lake watching us in pride

it’s a beautiful day, though my mind strays

thoughts of you tormenting and echoing

i should be grateful for all i have, but