When poetry touches the soul, everything starts making sense. The inner world seems real and the outer one becomes bearable. When thoughts mixed with words travel through the empty spaces of mind, poetry happens to me. It always has been a mysterious force guiding me through. With two published books and one amaturish blog, I consider myself blessed to have started this journey. An old diary with think brown cover and an over used, end bitten pen. That’s where real magic begins! May you find your undiscovered meanings in my poems. May existence make sense. Even if just for a little while.
I hate the self-immolation of orange sex. Weather was leaving blue strings on the skin. Redemption was incomplete by sharing the legs Lips will not knead the ears. Like wakng in darkness for a passage to grief. Black moon will
A misbelief breaks into rags. Still I dream of some gods on black pages piecing together the words of light. The rains come in the cage of tears, voicelessly. Striated muscles of splintered faith go to cramps birthing the avatar
A volcanic kiss was becoming ungreen. The shark was coming. All night it was raining. The sap was rising and love-farm was deluged. A blue moon walks on the dry eyes. Why the tears had gone to exile? A mole
The dark clouds are rolling in quickly, wild wind blows fast and fiercely Many leaves and twigs start twirling around and circling Feeling like Edgar Allen Poe, In the distance I can hear some echo’s Of many dog’s barking in
Pillage started, when there were anti-answers. The trapped light- wanted to be released, from brutalism. When you were nearly drowned, in the multitude of questions, joining the palms, you collect the moments of solitude. You drop a key in the