Tuberose Let’s call it the platform of love I entered life from. (Not quite poetic, you know?) Let’s call it the tarmac for the soul, a kind of white and yellowish context for the experience of life. (What kind of poetry do you see in these substantial associations?) Since then, I’ve always searched the perfect
Category: Poems
Exiled Though the living room contained my writing desk I have exiled this self (into the kitchen) Not willing to witness the emptying of walls. My walls of pictures and of shadows are being washed All going down the drain (into the bathroom) The drain’s life might be in danger receiving so much of
The daily waltz Twisting the words till you grind all the ideas ( teamsters throwing truths all around) Twisting the feelings till you mill all the emotions (masters of reason and truths of the dark) Twisting and tossing in your colored balloon –blindly flying through the skies of your dreams- (unending breath of the waves of
Sick of the sickness of your soul Barely baring your blindness (deafness drowning your dreams of freedom into such endless noise, the noise of all the words you shout believing you are heard or that it counts). You’re simply numb in the jungle of your thoughts that shred your wings Right on the open stage you’re
I chopped my life left slices everywhere (a slice of cake for every soul I met) I kept my other lives in the attic of the shell (snails have such a fascinating house) Slices of the snail’s life carved in the shell (some are so old I simply can’t remember them) So many slice
Worlds of Words 