Saturday, June 04, 2016

These Days


A poem sits me
down, pours a cup
of soul or two.
Now drunk, divided
between two unknowns:
The world outside
and inside.



Going to the market
used to be a breeze.

Of course, there were
the occasional arguments,

how a domestic helper
would come handy,

how your age-battered legs

Now a helper helps me
on my way

to forget how our arguments were
won or lost, how your legs


Stop Running

We can't
stop running.

Our hearts
thud, thud

Our eyes
roll, roll

Until the first
time you
come before



Slow clouds push
me softly off the ground
to ride with the wind.
Horse's mane is my imagination
fluttering in the light
of day unblinking, staring
at my dreams.


P.S.: These are born of productive days, or days I have put aside for writing these craps, or poems, or whatever you may choose to call them.

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