Wednesday, September 30, 2015


I write for those who never read me
Or if they do, they've never shown,
I raise my poems from my womb...
(Will they read them upon my tomb?)

I write for those who cannot fly,
(But have they ever, ever tried?)
I spread my words into their world
And each of them, they just deny.

I am the one who's "solitary"
But if they gave a second look,
They'd see what's written in my book...
(-But would they buy a dictionary?)

I write for those whose eyes are blind,
They're deaf and dumb, and cold and dry.
And even though they'll never listen,
I write, for otherwise, I'd die.


I've finally found out
That most of the tears I cried
Were not mine.
They dropped from other eyes,
so clear, salty and bright
-but they were not mine.
Yet I have on my face
All the tracks
They've left behind.

From My Window

This is about what I see from my window. The world, the people. But it's important that one thing is absolutely clear: The landscape changes everyday, and sometimes, more than once. Or maybe, my eyes change...


Sometimes I see a poem. 
Sometimes I see a street. 

The street comes from me. 
It leads the words I see 
To the world where you all live. 

Sometimes I just don't see...
The street is dead and gone.
There's no way I can go
Back to the place I call my own.