カテゴリー: poetry

Pale

Photo by Teodora Spasova from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

something

Photo by Helly Mist (Adarรꜧ) from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

everyday

Photo by Wayne Jackson from pexels

Every morning,
I drink regret up.

Every night,
I carve regret on my wrist.

カテゴリー: poetry

Our Midnight

Photo by Андрій Селезньов from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

Spring and Summer

Photo by Oleksandr Pidvalnyi from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

The World Where She Lives In

Photo by David Selbert from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

they

Photo by Victor from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

The Child

Photo by Sebastian Sørensen from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

Tears Never Drop

Photo by Laurentiu Robu from pexels

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.

カテゴリー: poetry

A Day of Spring

Photo by Matthias Cooper from pexels

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.