I write

In the inconsiderate world

too much in hurry to stop by

and peek into the sorrows,

I write myself

in blue dark days,

the wretched unmade bed,

the ill-lit room lights

and in loud cry of silence,
I write myself

On the table pavements,

the sheer mythical curtains.

and on the final books' pages
I write for the people downstairs,

the influential mankind,

the poverty of love

and for that now-changed-man.

I write myself, about
the old astray dreams,
the fantasies of the kid,

the stories of yesterdays

and intents of tomorrows.
I write myself 
in the emptiness of hours
on the surface of the sky
for the crave of spilling it out
about me and them.
And then I delete
the harsh uttered words,
I hide it all
under the undone pillows,
put it behind my own walls
and wipe it off my heart.
For the paradox, I picture
them as the broken ones
and I write myself
the promise of unbrokenness.