a challenge

Put in to paper
he asked
a challenge in words

a writing in the head

How frustrating
is the process of writing
something that you cannot hear in your head

Don't write

Don't write when you are angry
the words will slant

Don't write when you are happy
the words will buzz out

Don't write when you struggle for words
you cannot create what you don't have

Don't write when you want attention
it arrives with other means

Don't write when you are sleepy
you will rush the river

Don't write when you just woke up
the river will be lazy

Don't write when you are sober
the words will be messy

Don't write when you are drunk
the words will be honest

Don't write when you are in between
if you are unclear, how will you be?

Don't write when you are clearheaded
where is the fire?

Don't write when you are hungry
how can you arrive at the word when you cannot lift yourself up?

Don't write when you are full
the words will be sleepy

Don't write when you are unready
things will look like this poem

Don't write when when you are ready
because there will not be enough time

Don't write for a situation, be every situation with words.

Apology to the pens

I can no longer
generate poetry
the same way I can emotions,
I am sorry, pens

When does it come to life?

You ask, when does it come to life,
this passion- words exploding like sugar
when, you ask again
I tell you when faith returns once more.

writer block, once more

Like an ink that's dried out
completely
I run out of words

Language on a crutch

I have severed the tongue in me, left it to wander for years
my native language limps onward
it walks by me on a crutch

Modern-poetry

This is modernity;
who can tell, these days,
where poetry begins and stories end?

1520, generating

This is the beauty of new things
and a burden too, generating
1520 times, these words to you

Sharing stories

Like word of mouth
is the story, formed with superstition
leaves way for blabbermouths
to keep on rambling

Strange Things Come Out of Your Mouth

Strange things come out of your mouth

you hear blame between the breaths

for the thoughts as they line waiting to exit

like preschoolers with heavy backpacks, your head

Read the rest here: https://visualverse.org/submissions/strange-things-come-out-of-your-mouth/

How close, how far?

I stand near where I buried my dreams last,
the vast space overlooking the hill
and a long street that could have been a high street
there's something inspiring about the state of poverty

it moves with you regardless of where you find your footing
in the world above and beyond you
close or far to the point of origion
everyone has a root, essentially

but this state of poverty never leaves you
the runs in you are bigger than ladling with dirt your hands
your land has been sown and replanted
over the years yet still you cannot cover yourself from the sun

I stand near where I buried my dream last,
a cotton candy seller walks past
hauling pink-puffed promises in plastic bags
I lift a prayer to present myself into the chaos

please preserve my dreams intact 
beneath realities rained by rubble 
let me be, vast and rounded 
like the eternal sea in me.

river-flow

without force, it will arrive
the flow of the river
that bursts in you.

silence

This is the punishment of the words
they seize to come
when you need them the most

longer

Here lies a collection of all the years that passed
since I started holding a pen, or typing what was in mind
it keeps growing and has been with me longer than the years themselves

longer, I have kept you
than analog and digital formats of rolled-film cameras
than the times I decided it was easier to let go

longer I have kept you
than the faith that I have lost and regained
than the clothes that I have worn and given away

longer I have kept you
than the flight-time between the axis and the point of origin
than the longings made over cereal boxes

longer I have kept you
than the times I thought my friends were made up from love and hate
than the education I received in the daily

longer I have kept you
than the anniversaries I have made in my head
while I sat with folded table clothes and beaten jeans

longer I have kept you
four years to be exact, I poured into you words
then you gave me a scene off a high skyscrapers
an understanding that transcended even my own understanding.

I want to paint you a story

I could have painted you a story
in the colors and sounds available to my hands
but my paint-brush is broken and it is expensive to replace the color
with a simile.

I could have made a story sparkle on your skin
leave you with the effect of sunlight over a lake
I want to leave you with a story
that comes from nature to find you when you want to just hide.

here, in the words

Here in the words
I throw out
what I can never fully dispose of, every day.