Well, all the yellow paint that you consume
Will not paint happiness inside you.
A splash of paint on your internal organs
Will not brighten up you like it brightens up your walls,
...
The silhouettes are all that remain:
There is nothing left of them
But the memories that have faded over the years.
From generation to generation,
...
I may not be your cup of tea
But I am your tenth shot of tequila.
We are made to be together
One way or another.
...
There is a crow that always follows me:
A master of shadow—
His dark black wings full of mystery and evil;
His cunning dots for eyes.
...
I watched a dog sweep across the land where no man stands;
So delicate in his every step—
He manoeuvred across it with a strange familiarity:
The mud to him was not a problem,
...
-For Burns
Hanging from its branches,
The tree bears them like glorious fruits—
...
-For Hades, the crow
We put you up high so the cats can't get you,
But it is futile: you will die anyway.
...
You are the Bringer Of Life:
The one who spreads the seeds of Mother Nature—
But when The Darkness beckons you to follow,
You must heed its call to die at last.
...
-To my friends (who are not poets)
How can you not be a poet?
Let me understand:
...
A poem is someone's soul on paper:
It emits a feeling,
Perhaps of great rage or warmth or sadness—
...
Man cannot surpass dying—
He cannot live past his own death.
Power fades and falls. Like the tide,
...
I know what they are doing,
As they carry me to the car—
I have thought many times upon this moment;
As I know you have too.
...
If I were a lamb,
I would be a favourite of the priest's.
I, being so docile and so sweet,
...
I have taken pictures
Of a perfect summer's day;
Flowers, alive and new, in spring;
An elephant, majestic and proud, staring at me.
...
Tell me, dog with the big teeth,
What do you see past that muzzle of yours?
What do you hear through the whispers of those that go by?
You crave to feel human touch—
...
-For Achilles and Patroclus, reunited in death
Alone, walks a soul upon the earth.
...
I think sometimes of the life there once was:
Of a time when birds sang throughout the woods
And insects flitted between the flowers.
...
-To all those who died believing they were failures
Madman, fool, fraud, disgrace:
Curse your insolent mind and set alight your life's work—
...
Stuff me in dresses all that you want—
the same way you'd put a collar on a wolf, and tighten it like a noose,
then drag it around while it tries to escape: an object for your admiration.
...
I write some poetry. It's usually boring and free verse because I can't rhyme at all.)
Yellow Paint
Well, all the yellow paint that you consume
Will not paint happiness inside you.
A splash of paint on your internal organs
Will not brighten up you like it brightens up your walls,
And it will not cover up the stain of despair
That a thousand towels could not mop away.
They will always think you're mad
For swallowing something so toxic,
And they will always call you stupid for trying
Something that will never work.
You cannot paint the walls of your internal organs,
Despite all the paint that you consume:
Yellow or not, it will never make you happy;
It will only make it worse.