The poet.


To the poet,
who wrote his last verse,
unable to feel his own.

To the smile,
once so effortless,
now carved every morning
with a chisel.

To the songs,
he used to sing in the shower,
now a silent memory,

He is looking for inspiration,




but he is surrounded by a masquerade,

of fools acting wise,
and the wise taking pride,
in their wisdom,

of people who have strayed,
far from their own self,
running behind things,
that they don’t want,

And in this chaos,
he awaits a little warmth,
a little hope,
he wants to bare,
his soul naked,
trying to recolor the ideas
that are now faded.






Do you look at the stars and feel,

that they are looking back at you?

Judging you?

Do you cry yourself to sleep?

And then you cry more because

You didn’t know why you cried before?

Do you question every gift you get,

every sentiment?

And think, that you don’t deserve a shred?

Then think again, friend!

About the lives you touched, brought a change.

Think about the fits of laughter she had,

when you tightly clutched her finger

in your puny hand.

The times he carried you around on his back,

even when he cramped his leg, 

could hardly stand.

And at last, think about you.

Your dreams, your fire,

one that which people used to admire.


And remove the grey tint.

The brush and the palette are in your hands.