What We Had

what we had was little, 

but it counted for something, 
and that was all that mattered 

to souls indebted to world's 

insatiable ingratitude 

what we had was indefinable 

yet we loved it that way, 

for to find meaning to something 

leads down a convoluted path 

of unwanted discoveries 

what we had wasn't much 

but we were accustomed just 

getting by, 

oblivious to the world's ever inviting 

smile of greed 

and its charms would beguile us 

and suddenly, we weren't enough for 

each other 

It Is Finished

The beginning of a roller-coaster, 

the ride through seemingly never-ending vistas 

sometimes an occasional fear would creep in 

and doubts emerge slowly but fizzle out 

as we got accustomed to the cheap thrills, 

which conquered the doubts 

dismissing them as irrational 

and so we went on drinking, making merry, 

and one day, we gasp with horror 

It is finished!

 

A Festival of Fools

 I am more than convinced, 

in all its grandness, 

that earth is one giant stomping ground, 

is a festival of fools 

 

so much do not make sense, 

like how we are consumed by greed, 

so much that humans are the only animals 

that pay to live on earth 

 

religion has the grandest ideas 

on morality, 

yet so many are evil - even the staunchest 

believers 

Humans are no better than animals 

except humans can rationalize their evil 

The Tale of Chipcho

He is, by virtue, a man whose 

well of excuses never runs dry. 

Given an opportunity, or not, 

he can always rely on a robust cache

excuses. 

He can get away some of the times, 

especially when he is not accountable to himself

He is too lenient with himself - Charles Chipcho 

because Chipcho does what Chipcho wants  

some things may mean the whole world 

for a second, then it doesn't 

everything lasts as long as he does not

find an excuse

or have an iota of care 

 

No Poem Makes Sense

At the touch of something divine, 

A mere moment assumes new significance, 

Yet, basking in the glorious world, words, 

Words diminish the new meaning, perchance, 

ashamed of their own nudity

A poet's words are often a vain attempt, 

To fit an entire world in verse, 

For to freeze time requires more than rhyme 

To paint a moment requires more than canvas 

In each poem are just jumbled words 

 

No perfect poem ever makes sense 

If it does, then it isn't a poem 

No one is obliged to understand a poem 

Many were composed by poets high on drugs 

And the rest battling internal demons 

A Life of Too Many Maybes

maybe we dream too much,

maybe we are searching 

an inexistent higher purpose, 

maybe we are insignificant 

yet we pretend to be 

maybe we needlessly struggle 

against a force too powerful, 

that will eventually crush us 

and condemn us to oblivion 

 

maybe we should just rest easy, 

be a little kind and gentle to ourselves, 

maybe we should just to revel 

in life's little simplicities 

laugh at our own follies a little more   

maybe we do not know 

that which we think we know 

maybe we are puppets 

who dance to master's lullaby

December Blues

 a slow stroll down dry January 

a tinge of regret masks merry 

of the year past, and a deserved toast, 

to dreams yet to come

a peculiar walk down dry January 

an infinite number of day, all blurry 

all queuing to be counted derelict  

In one cold December morning 

It's been tough, nothing much 

despite deep and honest intentions 

amounted from strenuous efforts 

But, hey, isn't it December? 

That's enough a reason to make merry 

And reward oneself, once more 

for three hundred and sixty five days 

of bliss-filled, or lack thereof, existence