Conquest
We are floating apart like driftwood,
And I try catching all the phrases you speak.
I tell him, you smell like lavender,
And heartbeats.
You tell me I smell like conquests.
You hold my hand and tell me
'Teach me how not to leave',
I take your hand and
On every bone you own
I carve my name.
Tonight, I am just making you home.
Famine
Women in Bengal in 1943 weeped
For over two days,
Not over the death of her husband
In world war II.
But in the hope her teardrops
Would quench the thirst of her
Children.
One night,
You ask me why I stopped writing
You poetry.
And I whispered
'It's the famine of my heart.'
And since then your nostalgia haunts my existence.
War
My therapist says
People are not poetry
I try painting every time I write.
So I wondered if,
Pablo Neruda wrote
Keeping Quite,
About the silence of the
Women he assaulted
Or peace that arose from the stillness.
I tell her
We all have war agony in our blood,
But at least
Poetry doesn't judge us for healing wrong.
Death
Look, there is a funeral here,
Centuries buried in hearts
of unspoken forever.
A mad old scientist in Poland
Was found dead in his study,
They say he died trying
To figure out the key to immortality.
He didn't. But I did.
So now I write letters to every person
I meet.
Hoping they last longer than I do.
I want to be anything but perishable.
YOU ARE READING
Lying, Underneath.
PoetryI don't know if I exist. A collection of poems and letters to fill the distance between dreams.
