The Void

I am stuck in this void

A void of my creation

I live for the minute

Sometimes for the second

And always for the single breath

Life’s outdone me

I am incapable of thinking about tomorrow

Tomorrow is a fallacy

Tomorrow is a scam

Tomorrow is for the hopeful

But if you are stuck in a void

Tomorrow is the biggest joke

You’d ever want to hear

The Mourning Poet

Why should a poet’s muse always be pain?

Why?

Why should a poet mourn of a lost something?

Lost love,

Death,

Infirmity,

Why is a poet always on the receiving end

Of all the pain assigned to humans

Why?

Why do poets carry burdens for far too long?

Why do poets love deeply?

Why do they give their whole soul

And hearts

To an uncaring world

Are poets blind to the life’s simple bliss

Are poets immune to good things

Why are poets concerned too much?

On lost things

Instead of what remains

When everything is gone

Why do poets always rummage

Through ruins,

Searching what’s already gone?

Why?

Springs of Life

Rusty I have grown

The words have frozen

I can't think,

I can't think how to rhyme 

The cute phrases that cured my solitude 

no longer rouse emotions 

The longings have dissipated

like morning dew 

The world is dreamless 

The heart feels good to step on 

The sprouting flowers,

Their bewitching bloom 

No longer gnaws the soul 

Even when I don't know how

to write poetry again