Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?

even in the loneliest momentsi have been therefor myself.

Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.

You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.

From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.

A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.

The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.

For a game, you don’t need a teacher.

Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.

Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.

THREE BASIC TRUTHSThree things have a limited threshold: Time, pain, and death.While truth, love, and knowledge –Are boundless.Three things are needed For humanity to co-exist:Truth, peace and basic needs.Everything else -Is irrelevant.

In the essence of truth lies deceit.

Ô, Wanderess, WanderessWhen did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

In a myriad of ways you tell one truth.

I imagined I was God for a millisecond And became speechless for a long time.

God is a cloud from which rain fell.

Devil and God – two sides of the same face.

Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.

God is busy and has no time for you.

When following God, Zero we never find.

Deliver thunder, GodIf you choose not to talk.

New Rome will be destroyedBy the attacks of new vandals.God always remains silent.

To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.

It is beautiful to express love and even more beautiful to feel it.

Wherever I go, I meet myself.

I visited many places, Some of them quite Exotic and far away, But I always returned to myself.

Use the wings of the flying Universe, Dream with open eyes; See in darkness.

There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.

I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.

The most complicated skill is to be simple.

Since there is no real silence, Silence will contain all the sounds, All the words, all the languages, All knowledge, all memory.

To risk life to save a smile on a face of a woman or a child is the secret of chivalry.

Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.

There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin.

Words rich in meaning can be cheap in sound effects.

Be aware of the high notes, of the blissful faces and their soft messages, and listen for the silent message of a highly decorated gift.

Everything that looks too perfect is too perfect to be perfect.

He knows he will be born again, And start fresh anew.

He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.

We don’t know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side.

The night is still waiting.

Dream by making and make by dreaming.

Entering a cell, penetrating deep as a flying saucer to find a new galaxy would be an honorable task for a new scientist interested more in the inner state of the soul than in outer space.

Crossing the limit is not my styleMy footsteps meander less than a mileI travel the world perhaps in a minuteYet a dream, to me, is never infinite!

some winterswill never meltsome summerswill never freezeand some things will only... live in poems.

Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.

To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.

Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.

Ô, Muse of the Heart’s Passion,let me relive my Love’s memory,to remember her body, so brave and so free,and the sound of my Dreameress singing to me,and the scent of my Dreameress sleeping by me,Ô, sing, sweet Muse, my soliloquy!

You may be a poet and not even know it.

I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple -- or a green field -- a place to enter, and in which to feel. Only in a secondary way is it an intellectual thing -- an artifact, a moment of seemly and robust wordiness --wonderful as that part of it is. I learned that the poem was made not just to exist, but to speak --to be company. It was everything that was needed, when everything was needed.

...so i will greet youin a wayall loved thingsare meant to be greetedwith a tear in my heartand a poem in my eye.

i have laughedmore than daffodilsand cried more than June.

To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge

You see it dying, you feel helpless while it fades,You tend to lose hope lest you forget, a ripple is all, and that's all it takes...#MyExperiencewith498A

Chimerical words, the words were written,Some are wasted; some are still on the page,Tattered words, the words were written,Some are young, some are aged,Gloomy words, the words were written,Some are unspoken, some are told,Words were hurt, though they can heal,Words are breathless, though can feel,Words won hearts, words shattered hearts,Words lost battles, words won wars,Wars within, words had scars.

His pen spoke more to her than he ever did”.In the war of words, some are unwritten and some are unspoken.

How might I get over this? How would I be able to overlook the way he used to be with me? How could I overlook that his fingers touched my indiscernible soul before it twisted my nipples? How might I overlook his essence that still is in my garments? Despite everything, I still hear you saying that you love me. Though I know you don't.

All she captures is a moment and what she calls it is a memory,Sometimes, it is assumptions that we use; all we need is a theory,Because you don’t know what is there in the future,And all you need is a vision to make a perfect picture.I feel that I have known you for a century,And whatever she calls is a memory.

After all these years, all I know is, I need not to do anything as a part of remorse.All I need is to write.Because,'Poetry forgives.

Your words on the screen are my color palette I dip my brush into your words and paint youOn the sky, on the ceiling, on the snow; on the tabletOf things eternal : love truth beauty happiness

your handtouching mine.this is howgalaxiescollide.

To fall in love with someone's thoughts - the most intimate, splendid romance.

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

lean in to kiss mein all the placeswhere the acheis the most special.

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

i immersemyselfin youlikei immerse myselfinto a beautiful story.

With callused handsi tastedthe softness of the moonin the coldest windsi discoveredmy soul's warmest fireplacein the roughnessof his stubblethe tenderest love.

All beautiful distractions, ignites from you.

A thousand lips, a thousand eyes,a thousand hearts will read these words,as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,repeatedly, again and again and again.Some will mock, some will laugh. Somewill shed a tear. But it is writtenonly for your lips, your eyes, your heart,beloved.

Hope without love is hopeless.

I hope that someday when I am gone, someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off of these pages and thinks, "I would have loved her.

What will you do now with the gift of your left life?

When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream.

If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.

Life into death— Life’s other shape, No rupture, Only crossing.

Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.

She will blaze through you like a gypsy wildfire. Igniting you soul and dancing in its flames. And when she is gone, the smell of her smoke will be the only thing left to soothe you.

She's an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind.

I love with love, so that we all may love." ~ Amunhotep El Bey

I kept you so well, buried beneath the darkest shame and stilled with filthy lies. Perhaps I should have dug deeper.

Before she knew it, she was just another set of eyes in a dusty attic, waiting for the stairs to creak.

Miracle: to love more with an irreparable heartache

Feelings and emotionran through my veinslike a hurricane.And that's when everythingbegan to look like poetry.—You look like poetry

I have licked the fire and danced in the ashes of every bridge I ever burned. I fear no hell from you.

The only way to find art is to lose touch with reality.

She lit wildfires inside my soul and fanned them with hurricanes.

in a worldfull oftemporary thingsyou area perpetual feeling.

the saddest thing is to bea minute to someone,when you've made them your eternity.

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand;but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon,when I don't know, if you will ever come back.

tell meof something fiercer than the love with which i gaze upon youof something softer than the tendernesswith which i hold you.

there are some poemsthat we leave behindsome that leave us behindwhile some just livesilentlyin the heartcrumble, sometimesdwindledisappeardieand are rebornwhen you smile again.

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

All shadows of clouds the sun cannot hide like the moon cannot stop oceanic tide;but a hidden star can still be smiling at night's black spell on darkness, beguiling

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

sometimes i don't know, which momentwhich cool gust of wind will come,and enchant metousling my hairand my heart, stirring...that familiar ache of poetry, which drop will kissthe old wrench in my soulreminding me, all over againi miss you better in the rain.

Sometimes I think,I need a spare heart to feel all the things I feel.

it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too,have been bruised...by beauty.

because some thingssometimesaren't ours to hold,but just beautiful to listen to.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.

whatever you dobe gentle with yourself.you don’t just livein this worldor your homeor your skin.you also livein someone’s eyes.

You are that one breath. that puts all the remaining breaths. back into my body.

When Hitler marched across the RhineTo take the land of France,La dame de fer decided,‘Let’s make the tyrant dance.’Let him take the land and city,The hills and every flower,One thing he will never have,The elegant Eiffel Tower.The French cut the cables,The elevators stood still,‘If he wants to reach the top,Let him walk it, if he will.’The invaders hung a swastikaThe largest ever seen.But a fresh breeze blewAnd away it flew,Never more to be seen.They hung up a second mark,Smaller than the first,But a patriot climbedWith a thought in mind:‘Never your duty shirk.’Up the iron ladyHe stealthily made his way,Hanging the bright tricolour,He heroically saved the day.Then, for some strange reason,A mystery to this day,Hitler never climbed the tower,On the ground he had to stay.At last he ordered she be razedDown to a twisted pile.A futile attack, for still she standsBeaming her metallic smile.

Whatever you get out of poetry - take it. take it. take it. Words are better off felt than understood.

depth and substance.the two most exquisite qualities. be it in a poemor a person.

For it is up to you and meto take solacein nostalgia's armsand our abilityto create the everlastingfrom fleeting moments.

love wounds me with soft pillows with tender lips and fingers

Once in a while i am struckall over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

I took her to bed with silk and song'Lay still, my love, I won’t be long,I must prepare my body for passion.''O, your body you give, but all else you ration...

Do not turn me intorestless watersif you cannot promiseto be my stream.

ولأنني رغم القبور..ورغم موت الأرضأرفض أن أموت

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”-In the yellow time of pollen

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

I yearn to make these scars disappearAnd to forget about the past.To throw away all of my fearsAnd to be happy at last.

in the afterglowof an evening raini lay downin the grass and think of youmy body acheslike an after-kissbreaking in soft firesand wildflowersmy dear, i will always bethis tender for you.

i'm glad to be alive in a world wherehis gently awakening eyesnourish the morning sun.

a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.

Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.

This is where I belong, burning in these flames. For everything I have done wrong, I know I am to blame.

May your love for me be likethe scent of the evening seadrifting inthrough a quiet windowso i do not have to runor chase or fall... to feel youall i have to dois breathe.

the onewho will jolt awakeall the unwrittenthe unsungand the unlived in me. i am waitingfor him.

i hope thatwhoever you arewherever you areand no matter howyou are feelingyou will always have somethingto smile about.

your smile.is the ultimategolden dream.all the poemsin the worldare waking up from.

be the kiss in my hairthat no one seesmove, when i movesigh, when i sigh...be that line from a poemthat i hold in my eyes.

and the afterglow...of your gaze...is the onlysweater that I need.

Life is just a slide. Back and forth between loving and leaving, remembering and forgetting, holding on and letting go.

Within my reflection I see tears, for what I see is the truth, are my greatest fears.

I breathe in...the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.

‘Paradise Lost’ was printed in an edition of no more than 1,500 copies and transformed the English language. Took a while. Wordsworth had new ideas about nature: Thoreau read Wordsworth, Muir read Thoreau, Teddy Roosevelt read Muir, and we got a lot of national parks. Took a century. What poetry gives us is an archive, the fullest existent archive of what human beings have thought and felt by the kind of artists who loved language in a way that allowed them to labor over how you make a music of words to render experience exactly and fully.

I had embraced you...long before i hugged you.

moonlight disappears down the hillsmountains vanish into fogand i vanish into poetry.

there is some achingthat will only heal...in the mosque of sleep.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway....of my life.

Live as many lives as you can.

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated....foreverin my mother’s arms.

What am I to do?What is my destiny?I have no idea, not a clueFeeling lost and empty.What is my dream?What is my future?I beg thee to listen to me,I beg thee to answer.

The books [poetry collections] may not sell, but neither are they given away or thrown away. They tend, more than other books, to fall apart in their owners’ hands. Not I suppose good news in a culture and economy built on obsolescence. But for a book to be loved this way and turned to this way for consolation and intense renewable excitement seems to me a marvel.

The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.

I want to read every book that’s writtenhear every song that was sungI want to gaze at every cloudand hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.

Without the wetness of your love, the fragrance of your water, or the trickling sounds of your voice ― I shall always feel thirsty.

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

Let my toes teach the shore how to feel a tranquil lifethrough the wetness of sands Let my heart latch the doorof blackness, as all my pain now blue sky understands

Poetry will die when love and pain cease to exist.

The music of revelation announces itself to the reader in somber brooding tones or in melodies light as air and one is invited to dance with the most captivating of partners: poetry.

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

To the knights of faith nobody believes.

I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn’t accept?

I see what I want of Love... I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes until I see our shadow behind this dispossessed place... I see what I want of people: their desire to long for anything, their lateness in getting to work and their hurry to return to their folk... and their need to say: Good Morning...

I love being able to see an un-written future.

Sevgili Güllük;Yastık kanepenin üzerine konur. Tekme atılarak düşürülür o. Pazar günleri kuru fasulye yenir. Karşılıklı, alt alta, üst üste ve daha değişik şekillerde durulur. Islak vardır. Portakalın içi de dışı gibi portakal rengidir. Köstebeklerin uçma kabiliyeti bulunmaz. Kamyonlar yük taşırlar. Kaza olur. Kaza yaparlar. Süleyman, Çetin, Atıf, Kemal, Necdet gibi erkek isimleri; Zeynep, Burçak, Burçak ve Burçak gibi kız isimleri vardır. Patates cinsleri vardır; kızartmalık ve haşlamalık. Çeşitli ebatlarda düğün pastaları olur. Muz olur.

Poetry is never abandon it is only remixed.

if what is true brings us sorrow, / if what sorrow brings is truth

I will never take what is never given, but I will receive to what is given.

A word only writes Its night and ridesIts dream.

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible the world has written its own.

To write good poems is the secret of brevity.

If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.

There can be no forced inspiration.

I spent all nightweaving a poem for you to wear. You look so beautifulwhen you wear my light.

you are a lover of the wordsa soul mate to the storyeverything becomes a part of youfrom my fingertips to your eyesfrom my heart to yours

You don’t know anything, but I know even less.

Total knowledge is annihilation Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel The world sensed only through senses And immune to the knowledge without feeling.

Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.

The will of life and death, never share the same motivation...we all know that love is the ultimate motive to die for...but let’s not kid ourselves......we all know the ultimate motive to rise back from the dead is vengeance.

Busy with the ugliness of the expensive success We forget the easiness of free beautyLying sad right around the corner, Only an instant removed, Unnoticed and squandered.

You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.

In this storyI am the poetYou're the poetry.

When you find your twin flame you also find your freedom, for there is nothing more exhilarating, wild and free than absolute soul love.

Thoughts are ideas scattered in your head. When written forms a sentence. When rhymed, it forms a phrase and singing it blooms a beautiful poem.

You've got a lot to say for the one who walked away.

You may follow the footstepsThe whole day will passWith you going around in circlesYet not reaching anywhere at last!

Cold feet under a warm blanket, steam over an empty mug--rain splatters on dry window pane--open journals of closed memories... tears of laughter and joy of pain... schmaltz of diametric morning.

One may never get to know how fast the time travels till the one gets in that position to race against the time.

Go for it because for all those moments that you would make up your mind the other might have already rushed for it.

Time is the real emperor and there is no space for any pride since time flies and blows away anything.

Till the time you realize your conquest you already reach that stage when you start losing the grip.

What melody will our rivers remember if songbirds forget how to sing?

Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.

Without space, there is no time.

He did not waste time in a vain search for a place in history.

There is only as much space, only as much time, Only as much desire, only as many words, Only as many pages, only as much ink To accept all of us at light-speed Hurrying into the Promised Land Of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.

It is vain futility to analyze the algebra of time.

It is futile to spend time telling stories about the fleetness of each day.

Everything we hold will soon elapse,as we’ll sleep through one dreamless night;but rising again to this dream, whether we’ll behiding behind our darkness or this borrowed light?"- Thou little fool

Everything we hold will soon elapse,as we’ll sleep through one dreamless night;but rising again to this dream, whether we’ll behiding behind our darkness or this borrowed light?- Thou little fool

Asia is an entertainment, Europe is a dream, America is an imprisonment and Rest is a nightmare.

You can't hold someone whoWants to leaveYou can't clutch a memoryAs if it were todayYou can't take an insultClose to heartYou can't grasp for gloryFrom your chairYou can't seize lifeThinking only of lossAnd you can't grab a laser pointer dotOn the wallNo matter how much you tryThese hard-earned truths I give to you

You'll find magic everywhere, even in dark, dusty corners, if you stop searching with your limited human eyes and instead feel with your naked soul.

He loved her like a roaring lion, even when she was most unlovable, and there's a lot to be said for that...that kind of fierce, raging, omnipotent love.

Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...

I only wrote prose before I met you. My musings were superfluous and serious as well. But now the words dance with me. I sing with them and we create poetry.

I asked of the limitless sunshineHow to shine with the dawn's glowing light;No answer came back from the sunshine, But my soul heard a whisper, "Burn bright!

Reading poetry is like undressing before a bath. You don't undress out of fear that your clothes will become wet. You undress because you want the water to touch you. You want to completely immerse yourself in the feeling of the water and to emerge anew.

There is a whisper of light if you can hear Louder than sound of darknessyou never fear Numb sky’s muteness leaves you hard of hearingSenses wish to fly feelings disappearing

Glossa Time goes by, time comes along,All is old and all is new;What is right and what is wrong,You must think and ask of you;Have no hope and have no fear,Waves that rise can never hold;If they urge or if they cheer,You remain aloof and cold. To our sight a lot will glisten,Many sounds will reach our ear;Who could take the time to listenAnd remember all we hear?Keep aside from all that patter,Seek yourself, far from the throng When with loud and idle clatterTime goes by, time comes along.Nor forget the tongue of reasonOr its even scales depressWhen the moment, changing season,Wears the mask of happiness -It is born of reason's slumberAnd may last a wink as true:For the one who knows its numberAll is old and all is new.Be as to a play, spectator,As the world unfolds before:You will know the heart of matterShould they act two parts or four;When they cry or tear asunderFrom your seat enjoy alongAnd you'll learn from art to wonderWhat is right and what is wrong.Past and future, ever blending,Are the twin sides of same page:New start will begin with endingWhen you know to learn from age;All that was or be tomorrowWe have in the present, too;But what's vain and futile sorrowYou must think and ask of you;For the living cannot severFrom the means we've always had:Now, as years ago, and ever,Men are happy or are sad:Other masks, same play repeated;Diff'rent tongues, same words to hear;Of your dreams so often cheated,Have no hope and have no fear.Hope not when the villains clusterBy success and glory drawn:Fools with perfect lack of lusterWill outshine Hyperion!Fear it not, they'll push each otherTo reach higher in the fold,Do not side with them as brother,Waves that rise can never hold.Sounds of siren songs call steadyToward golden nets, astray;Life attracts you into eddiesTo change actors in the play;Steal aside from crowd and bustle,Do not look, seem not to hearFrom your path, away from hustle,If they urge or if they cheer;If they reach for you, go faster,Hold your tongue when slanders yell;Your advice they cannot master,Don't you know their measure well?Let them talk and let them chatter,Let all go past, young and old;Unattached to man or matter,You remain aloof and cold.You remain aloof and coldIf they urge or if they cheer;Waves that rise can never hold,Have no hope and have no fear;You must think and ask of youWhat is right and what is wrong;All is old and all is new,Time goes by, time comes along.

Virtually everyone needs motivation of some sort, but when you are in love - that is motivation enough, it turns many into poets and painters, it spurs the creativity in you.

Time will tell if it was well spent. Time will tell where all your ideas went. Time will allow you to achieve your goals. Time is too precious to put on hold.Don't waste time on meaningless things.Take advantage of its benefits and all life brings.

We have conversations with each other most nights - Sylvia Plath and me!

You are the greatest treasure if you are your greatest treasure treasure

She's the kind of girl who brings you to the moon without you even being aware. The kind of girl you trip in love with, The kind of girl you never forget.

She asks me silly questions. Like how much do I love her?I smile and look at the sky for how do I tell her that it is she who gives me my existence...

Is it the raindrops pervading my being?or is it your lips touching my skin?

Last night I inhaled the fragrance of the Moon!

Her memories splashed my nights with a magical illumination. Her thoughts were my intoxication!

I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.

She is the fragrance of a dozen jasmines.

She is forever beautiful just like the roses.

And you look more beautiful when you blush.

People start to lie more once they start to care less.

And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.

Women are like beautiful flowers. Only when you love them and take good care of them will they fully bloom into the beautiful flowers that they are.

She asked me the definition of beauty. So I told her name in my reply!

She gave me hugs that were like oxygen to a dying man and uplifted my soul!

She loved me deeply, madly and passionately. She knew no other way!

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and dived deeply into her ocean of love and that's how I saved my soul!

Love will find you when you least expect it to. It will come unannounced and find you in an unusual moment on the strangest of days!

Some people come into our lives and make us fall in love with our self!

Some people walk into our life and make us fall in love with our self.

We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me. On these cold wintry nights with our coffee mugs in hand, we talk for hours and hours, Sylvia Plath and me!

You made a poet fall in love with the world.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me your poetry.

I do not trust the truth. It shifts into reality.

I am certain, my love, that poetry was born only after your birth.

I loved you for a thousand years and missed you in all of them.

The longer the silence remains untouched the longer the miscommunication creates its own stories.

When I feel too much and the universe aches inside of me.

I see the beauty in you, and the darkness. Both are brilliant.

all the parts of mei did not show youwere the onesi wanted you to notice.

You can't break up with a soul mate.

Treat me like a rare first edition of your favourite novel.

A thousand lifetimes I'd exchange if only I could have one with you.

You read between the wrong lines.

While the world has found the right names for all chronic mental diseases, I believe poetry is also a brain dysfunction, yet the only one that owns itself the mastery for the cure. Isn’t it lovely to say, “He/She suffers of Poetry?”.

Roses have thorns,’ we whine. When thorns of life entwine. Simple things can bring solace to heart-Things everyone take for granted-Like tending beds of fragile roses-with heart full of scars

Thorns with rose petals, beauty with imperfection, softness of insensibility, pain of love; duality of human nature

Oceanic farness treasures tomorrowMingled tears lost in the sea of sorrowOur immortal love will lead us a way When pale days remain cloudy and grey

Always choose love

Far away soul in a dreamy stateForgotten slumber seemingly latePure rhythmic love now rising higherUnclad passion our only attire

HIDE & SEEKIf you wish to know what makes him sad,Pay close attention to his eyes—you’ll know what they hide.If you wish to know what makes him happy, Pay close attention to his eyes—you’ll know what they seek. —AK

Don’t despair nowyou fell in love with the maskand not what was behindit touched the chords inside your heartand made it beatand now that you have seen behind itdon’t despair

My wife is a thief...She takes the last cookieTakes forever to get readyShe takes her time in the showerTakes all of the hot waterShe takes my favorite seat on the couchTakes the high road when I lose controlMy wife is a thief...She took my last nameTook the time to get to know me, love meShe took the back seat and let me leadTook on motherhood and the emotional toll that it bringsShe took care of me the many times that I've gotten sickTook on the pain of pregnancy so that the Jackson legacy would live onMy wife takes, and takes, and takes...I'm so proud of my perpetual thief who stole my heart and won't give it back.

Every morningbefore the birds starttrilling me their stories,I give birth to a new lovethrough my same old heartwhen a lake’s placidityfinds life in the swans breathOnly for you...From the poem 'Only For You

I read old poems I wrote. They were all about you.

Night after night on starry wingsNight lovers soared so highMiles apart, across the oceansTheir love forgot to sighIn heavenly flight’s timelessnessThat highest height treasuredInto the deepest of all bluesTheir depth of love measured.From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers

Let our love chase all clouds awayHold my hand and feel the dayYour footsteps guide my steps all alongBeneath my skin your veins belong.

She knew me beyond my actionsBeyond my shallow attempts at happiness.She knew I had darknessAnd when I undressedAnd showed her what I was made ofShe noddedKnowing I was unrepairableAnd said 'I'll be here for you anyway

Don't ignore anybody who has ignored everbody and everything for you.

Pose your questions to people and you will get countless useless answers.

All people are enslaved by something.

Some people complain there are too many people on earth, Some people complain about secret societies, Some people accuse others of not being able to wake up early. Almost all people complain about something.

Death is buried there into death Hunger strikes on its own last breathNo spine to shiver, no heart talks At life’s craving poverty mocksFrom the poem 'Exhumation

Dreams are our only geography—our native land.

A hidden spark of the dream sleeps In the forest and waits In the celestial spheres of the brain.

Two forces create eternity – a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale.

A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.

Into the day as by dream I swim To the music of nourished meaning.

You ask how it is possible to be your own father and son. You should seek answers, although it is better to anticipate some, to be the light and dream.

I dreamed in night vision; whiteflowers of nocturnalgun fire – day residue shot to hell. If I held my dreamsto a windowsill,sun would sievethrough my screams.

Free diving is not entirely free: to go down you leave behind

If the colour of life turns grey turn the palette the other way

You resting your head tenderly on my shoulders while we sit below the old Oak tree. And we smile at each other and gaze lovingly at the fascinating sunset over the hills. This moment makes me feel completely alive as if we have reached not just cloud nine or ten but also cloud infinity!

The night is the balm for the wounded soul!

The fakirs always throng the sea-shoreTo find meaning in the chaosAnd then they too become melancholyFeeling nothing but their naked toes.

I love the smell of coffee when I wake up in the morning. It gives me the awesome feeling of hope!

In our most vulnerable hour, it is helpful to remember our creative power.

Don't compare her to sunshine and roses when she's clearly orchids and moonlight.

Poets, you always write about women worth dying for. Write, for a change, something about the ones worth living for!

Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.

Embrace your inner goddess, never let go of the light you carry within.

It is beautiful to talk about beautiful things and even more beautiful to silently gaze at them.

There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection.

Beauty is a cheap word, but beauty remains priceless.

Art is apotheosis; often, the complaint of beauty.

Beauty surrounds us, but oftentimes it takes a person with a poetic perception, an artist’s way of looking at the world, to first notice the sublime, and then stagecraft the splendor of nature so that other people can perceive their synoptic vision. The spirit and aesthetic intention behind the work is what assigns the work its artistic quality. Great works of poetry and writing, for instance, express not simply a criticism of life, but also encompass a philosophy for living.

I am a wildflower in your perfect bed of roses.

Written soul is called poetry

A storm-filled life replete with piercing and unearthly sounds ravages the soul of any thoughtful person. In contrast, the genteel wind of restoration moves silently, invisibly. Renewal is a spiritual process, the communal melody that sustains us. Inexpressible braids of tenderness whispering reciprocating chords of love for family, friends, humankind, and nature plaits interweaved layers of blissful atmosphere, which copious heart song brings spiritual rejuvenation. For when we love in a charitable and bountiful manner without reservation, liberated from petty jealously, and free of the toxic blot of discrimination, we become the ineluctable wind that vivifies the lives of other people. The mellifluous changes in heaven, earth, and our journey through the travails of time, while worshiping the trove of fathomless joys of life, constitute the seeds of universal poetry.

a single poemthe thing that can keep melight on my feet,when my soul isheavy with sorrow.

If I began to drawmyself away from youwe’d still be liketwo mixed colors of paintimpossible to separate.

May our twilights mix togetherlike breath and breathlessness.

Wings can only flyas long as the bird flies Soul blackens when you put on vestment of lies White candle wax criesfor ignitable wickJealous people burnto make your heart feel sick

When sighs are hypnotized by sorrowHappy moments you need to borrowFrom a little child or from a birdWho has the wild freedom of soul: stirred!

Every known thing used to be unknownAnd every rock could become a stone Someday nature will have to atone When soul sees dead flesh leaving the bone

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

They say this soul hunting will cost me my sanity,i say i'd go insane if i stop.

Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it's a product of an assembly line.

In trying to be perfect, He perfected the art of anonymity, Became imperceptible And arrived nowhere from nowhere.

We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery.

Sound unbound by nature becomes bounded by art.

Art is a distinct form of human communication. Art interprets experience, sensation, and feelings. An artistic work translates our mental images and allows other people to understand what we feel; art conveys our happiness, sadness, hopes, doubts, anxieties, fears, desires, and ineffable longings.

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.

Sit here, so I may writeyou into a poem and make you eternal.

A single poem, alonecan turn tidesscatter galaxiesand burst forth with riversfrom paradise.

Watch, how the sunslowly risesfrom behind my earnew lines, new countriesspring up in my palmsmy rough hairbecome swaying silkand all the leavesin my bodybecome lusher than fruits.

Let the wet earth embrace you firmly, soundly. She needs to be revived, she needs to beat like a heart full of adrenaline inside a chest.

With all control look for the hole, your mind gets weak, unless it’s truth you seek. Swirled and twirled into another world, into the smog, a doorway within the fog.” Deetkatu, The Little People Journey into the Mystic Sea

To read a poemIs to see light where there is darknessIs to hear silence where there is noiseIs to dance where there is no musicIs to sing where the only instrument is wordsAnd the stirring, impassioned pauses

I can't remember the poemThat pierced through my heartIt was the saddest I heardOf all truths ever spokenIt left a scar in meA wound that doesn't healBut the words are forgottenSo is a big part of me

I read for pleasureIn search of fictional worldsTo enrich my truths

KUNDALINI DANCEDark and cold and wet were Her handsI felt Her chilly breath inside my throatHer claws deep inside trying to find traces ofFear within meI stayed still Accepting Opening ReceivingWithin a moment She was insideTwo fingers below My belly buttonIn there She found no traces of shiversno traces of resistance, no traces of weaknessjust clear pure Passage-WayThen She grew into Her most powerful SelfShe stood undisturbed, unmoved, unchangedTotally free and She screamedAAAAAUUUUUUMMMFrom the centre of the earth, Through the tunnels of the caves, To the surface of the volcanoesAAAAUUUUUUMMMMTo open: Mountain tops untouched by clouds and rainCherry fields in their full blossomA dog running after a train filled with the excitementA witch laughing at passers-by mirroring their paranoiaDeath looking us in the eyes searching for the chosen Few Capable to see the Key behind Her magic veil

Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.

Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.

History will be erased in the universal purgatory.

They say that history is going on somewhere.They say it won't stop. I have heldOne picture still for a long time and waited.

Poetry, like jazz, is one of those dazzling diamonds of creative industry that help human beings make sense out of the comedies and tragedies that contextualize our lives.

What we call life is only talk of nature.

There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your Soul You will see Magic over hereDid I just now hear a beautiful symphony over here ?Or is it just your soothing words murmuring in my ear?Is it the cute mynah bird on my shoulder?Or is it your soft head nestling that I feel so tender? There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your SoulYou will see Magic over here...Did I just now hear the nightingale sing around here?Or is it the breeze whispering softly to the trees near?Is that you giggling away to glory? Or is that just the flowers mingling with the bees and telling their story?There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your SoulYou will see Magic over here..

...Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve:After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc únselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.

...O if we but knew what to do When we delve or hew— Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender,

with each measured step,we knowthis earth is only as solidas we are.

Since nothing is absolute There is no absolute silence, Only an appearance Of temporary peace.

The day arrived,when myriad teary rivers flow and the muted wind faintly died in his tears—an altar for the beloved one's departure,for sister-hood is no more,for her to adore!while pangs the beating world in a lamenting voice;their remembering loss of the 'one' they embrace most and when the crepuscule came like a phantom,the mournful,gathered birds swiftly flew in gloom.

I ‘am shaggy as rivers, forests and mountains My eyes see the universe natural and super My mind is of many cuts Non-identical I have fought demons Half-horse, half alligator I ‘am victorious, I bled

Does not heed to the darkWith its shimmering light,Moon quietly bathes the ocean

Poetry keeps my heart neat, even when incomplete, I find peace.

And while she was fire,So fierce and so wild,I could only hope to be for her;The forests and the winds to carry her flame.

To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.

It had started with the moon, inaccessible poem that it was.

And stay, my dearstay...forever, as my quiet song,in my lilac dawn.

leave me some musicthat’s chocolate for the heart.

I realizedJune had never beenjust a monthmusic...never just a trembleon my lipswarmth was nevermerely a blanket.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

Sealing your lips makes your eyes talk Truth creeps beneath your lame feet’s walk Knees stiffen when blood vessels stalk A pounding heart’s lies hard as rock

The moon seems unawareof night's dark hittingon the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of loveraising hearts beatingwhile weather learns morefrom rain lovers meeting

I have a kind heart, I’m in love. It gets deeper with every kiss and every hug.

Poetry is more than just art, it’s like super glue to a broken heart. It can also be a light when your life seems a little dark.

I breathe in...the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

I wish to stay drenchedforeverin those rain-blue eyesin those...soul-reaching crystalsnot moving a musclenor breathingjustsavoringthis turquoise acheagainst my heart.

Every heart must have its privatebestseller book.

this heart yearns...for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms...unknown adventures.

I am filled time and againwith a heart-aching wonder when I thinkof the fireand frost of memoriesof the everlastingnessof lovethe solace of familyand the power of prayer.

kisses explode when... someone believes in me when my heart cries out a song of thanks to yours.

When I write...I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.

I keep my kindness in my eyes Gently folded around my iris Like a velvety, brown blanket That warms my vision I keep my shyness in my hair Tucked away into a ponytail Looking for a chance to escape On a few loose strands in the air I keep my anger on my lips Just waiting to unleash into the world But trust me; it’s never in my heart It evaporates into words I keep my dignity upon my chin Like a torch held up high For those who have betrayed me Radiating a silent, strong message I keep my gratitude in my smileA glistening waterfall in the sun Gently splashing at that personWho made me happy for some reason I keep my sensitivity in my hands Reaching out for your wet cheek Holding you, with all the love The love I want to share, and feel I keep my passion in my writing My words breathing like fire Screeching against an endless road As I continue to be inspired I keep my simplicity in my soul Spread over me like a clear sky Reflecting all that I am And all that’s ever passed me by And I hope you will look Beyond my ordinary faceMy simple, tied hairMy ordinary tastes And I hope you will see me From everyone...apart As I keep my beauty in my heart.

my dear, I have nothing to say.my heart burns like the evening sky.

Hands. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips.Neck. Ears.Thighs.Heart. Soul.Ahh!the things I get tosavor you with.

my dear,we are all made of water. it's okay to rage. sometimes it's okay to rest. to recede.

you are ever the only onei want to giveall the peachesin my heart tothe only one by whomi want them bruised.

To have been where you have beenAnd to still have joy,Dazzling in your heart,Now there’s a thing to make the whole world smile.

Be content to love, to dazzle in the light,If only for moments…And then be gone,With gladness in your heart,Before the creeping shadowsClaim too much your sadness at leaving.

Open the doors of your heart and they will come…And for every cruel arrow,Sweet caresses of delirium alsoTo nourish your soul.

Lark’s SongThat child who from Diana’s thought is bornA huntress swift, who doth the world adornWith strength and passion worthy of the GreenMay wax, and one day rise to be a queen.That child who in the eye of Phoebus growsOf visage fair, that none would dare opposeMay in her hand hold light and glory too,And to the Light hold sternly staunch and true.That child who with the face of Venus smiles,Will bear a heart of mischief and of wiles,And may in time love’s faithful bonds fulfilWhile bending lesser hearts unto her will.That child who with Athena’s grace doth moveMay to all eyes her worldly wisdom proveAnd make right wise and fulsome use thereofTo measure all who seek to win her love.That child who with grim Circe’s tongue foretells Enmeshing faithful hearts within her spellsBy dint of sly mendacity and guile,All innocence and virtue may defile.That child who by her cunning doth conniveMay by fair Tyche’s fortune wax and thriveAnd come in time to sit upon a throne;Or fail and fall, forsaken and alone.That child may choose to hark to glory’s callAnd shine in splendour, loved by one and all;Or cleave to darkness, hated and reviled:Chance crafts the fate of every fate-touched child.

The beautiful you is not the color of your skinOr the texture of your hair.The beautiful you is not how tall or short you areThe beautiful you is not rather you’re skinny or overweight by society standardsThe beautiful you is not the degrees you have obtainOr the size of your bank accounts.The beautiful you, has nothing to do with where you’re from, or religious beliefsNor the car you drive or the house you live in.The beautiful you is not the price tag of what you wearThe beautiful you has nothing do with how eloquent you speakThe beautiful you is your kindness and compassion toward othersThe beautiful you is your tolerance and patienceThe beautiful you is your ability to love and forgiveThe beautiful you don’t rush to judge what you don’t understandThe beautiful you is always seeking to evolve into its higher selfThat is the beautiful you and that is what the world needsThe beautiful you is what defines our HumanityThe Beautiful you, Be that Always!

It took me a long time to realiseThat mothers are women who carry you And not necessarily in their womb.

we always knewthat good times camewith termination contractseven if we weren't quite readyto sign it.

may my touchalways...be tenderas i would strokemother's cheekswhen she cried.

...now open your mind by closing your eyessee the unseen world within you which liesFrom the poem 'The Unseen World

May youalways haveopenbreezy spacesin your mind.

When you become a raindrop in your mind Thunder is the closest friend you may find Wind lashed trees, dark clouds, lightning or the dust Everything you will bear once you adjust