Like a dying larvae
Life transforms itself
Into butterflies of memories
Time feeds on my memories
Like the many-headed-monster
A day before my birthday
I sit at my desk
Looking blankly
At the empty screen of my life
Wondering
What should I write on it?
Like my beloved
Poetry does not come at my will
I read my older poems then
And realize
She met me more often in my poems
Than in reality
Isn’t that sad?
Is my reality a poor version of my
poems?
You are the footnote to all my poems
They are like our ancient bedroom
Where the flowers of lily are
still young
And night is still long
Poetry is not like sex though
It is more like foreplay
Sex is passively unidirectional
Many don’t get it at all
Others only masturbate
But those who get it
Never care about orgasm
I know
For you and I
Everything is in foreplay
Foreplay is everything
Shhh...Switch off the lights!
It’s a black out everywhere...
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