Thursday, 25 August 2016

It's not the alliteration, metaphor or even rhyme. It's the honesty, divinity and beauty that trounces to be a poem.

Wednesday, 3 August 2016

After me

Do not keep my things 
close or closed
in your safe
for I've never wanted to be kept.
Give away
to the orphan kids down the road,
the ambience of my purple room
all colors of my walls,
my diaries, as if someone'll write
on the pages of me,
my chronicles, undone though
for I'd still want to be partially read,
that little girl with no power of speech
will probably sew up my stories 
with never-told hers.
and the untouched fictions on my shelf
lying since forever,
maybe someone would read 
those characters for me, to me.
Do not scruple while thee
accord my favorites,
the blue shirt,
the peach bag, so many bags, all the bags,
my un-tuned guitar, for
I'll play through some fine fingers.
Do not possess me
inside the walls of memories.
and give away 
my dreams and hopes,
my stories and jokes,
my zeal and oddness,
my grin and happiness.
Do not hang me 
on one of the walls
when I'll still be everywhere,
in all the places I have ever been
in embraces of so many arms
in the always-proud-of-me eyes 
in each tick of every clock
and in the shrill echoes 
of my silence.
Do not keep me in your heart
for I'd still want to live out.
Do not bury me in a casket
and mourn when I die,
just burn me up.
Take my ashes 
and eat some, 
spread some,
smoke some.