ok, no money,
ok, there is no fame,
there is nothing to expect
from those mothers of art,
their children unrecognized
no share, no will,
nothing to expect, from all these
children of art.
ok, you sit alone, by the window
you put your folded arms,
you look outside
the people pass you by
and they do not bother
looking at you for the second time
ok, nothing delicious for breakfast
this month's rental is not paid
electricity bill lies there calling your attention
this is a poor guy, inside a foul room,
shits are all around
favorite expression: f....
age forgotten
wrinkles multiply
sour face
forested hair
thin chin, deep sunken eyes
restless fingers
ok, no friend really wants to read a poem
or if they read, one visit, it is out of pity
not even respect
don't cry. there is nothing worth crying.
just sit there
tomorrow they will bring the news
a friend writes a letter that for once he will dabble in poetry
and he has written one
though too personalized and needs further editing
you look at the ceiling as you lie hopeless in your bed,
you see images of hope
nothing angelic, there are no wings, no halo
not white, blurred, brownish, chinks
pieces, naked words, unfinished dialogues,
the unknown people at the other room
can hear you laughing
you laugh so hard
alone
perhaps, this time, you shall win.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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