This pale skin proves that
the sun abandoned my days
that consist of vanity.
Whenever I touch it,
I remember desire that
has already withered.
Pale
something
Something is burning
at the bottom of her.
The heat like needles
and coldness like icicles
pierce her regret
and carve pains
on the whole of her skin.
everyday
Every morning,
I drink regret up.
Every night,
I carve regret on my wrist.
Our Midnight
Ripples of summer
change the scent of bourbon.
Ice in my glass
plays the melody of
the end of spring.
At midnight,
bourbon and me
sink to the bottom of
whirlpools of craving
for summer.
Spring and Summer
They kissed―
The vague horizon
allowed them
to kiss.
The changeable scent of wind
made them kiss.
They kissed―
Colors mixed.
Sounds mixed.
I saw the moment that
they kissed.
The World Where She Lives In
Her world is so wide and wild.
Sometimes in the world,
uncountable stars cheer her up
and the unbreakable moon
gives her an eternal smile.
Sometimes in the world,
invisible love hovers
around her craving for warmth
and burning vacuity
blooms on her skin.
they
Instead of blood,
words are flowing
from my mind.
They never wilt.
They never crumble.
They never rust.
Blowing wind is always poetic.
Wandering bourbon shows me
the poetic world.
I’m in poetry.
Poetry is in me.
The Child
A crouching child,
whose wings were torn,
never cries,
is never able to cry.
Holding scorching hopes,
the child averts eyes
from them.
On the bed,
the child never cries,
but never smiles,
just breathes.
Tears Never Drop
Tears never drop
on the dry bed
that keeps her from sleeping.
The bloody past ties her to the bed
and she is just crouching
on the center of the prison.
Craving for the future
has already wilted, so,
tears never drop.
Books that pile up on the bed
remind her of emptiness.
They are just crouching
on the side of the prison,
the same as she is doing.
Resignation to the future
pierces her again and again, but,
tears never drop.
A Day of Spring
I’m writing,
because spring smiles at me.
I’m writing,
because spring whispers to me.
Borderless spring
dyes the Earth
in dawn and serenity.
A page of a book is turned
by calm wind
that consists of fragments of spring.
The scent of the sunlight
cheers me up
to continue writing.
Poetry and Me, Sometimes Coffee 