A poet without words
is like a stream
that does not flow
Ideas may emerge
but it is like an unidentifiable object has clogged
the flow of inspiration
that manifests into rhyme
An engineer may fix
by tracing the channel
of water flow
and identify the exact point
But is there a fixer
for the inner workings of the soul?
Or at least
I’d like to think
that is where rhyme originates
The easy to know
but hard to understand
voice that whispers
and controls our being
This ethereal substance
of supposed immortality
its very description
So it seems
or however I may address
about who I am.
So it seems
that you have
into my life
You have studied
what I like
when I change
With all that gathered information
you commodify and sell
what it is
to the highest bidder
try to sell to me
products that you know
I would like,
your ads are never-ending.
How does one argue with the irrational?
Or try to reason with someone that does not accept reasoning?
A common answer may be,
and you should just let them be as they are,
with the hope that their like is a minority.
I wonder sometimes,
what dictates the functioning
of a person’s mind?
What makes one believe?
is it truth
or blind faith?
Some men are led by their minds,
they seek truth and evidence ,
their opinions could even change,
when presented with new details.
Others speak of love,
their convictions are guided by their soul,
they don’t search…
Upon a time, in the safari lands
there was a historic drought, that emptied the rivers,
and the herbivores, they had it the worst.
It was during this period
when an antelope heard whispers,
she was eavesdropping no less,
feeding under a tree, and it was 2 birds from above.
They spoke of a stream
that was unknown to the animals in the lands,
a gushing flow of the clearest waters
was what the birds had said.
The antelope snorted, and let her presence be known
the birds looked down, initially terrified
but once they saw it was an antelope,
I wander alone,
my shadow, my only company
I walk in search for an unknown entity,
for lately, I have struggled to find the words
to express the feelings locked up inside of me.
It seems we have come some ways
from when the streets were cold and empty,
I see commuters in every direction,
people roaming in large numbers.
I make my way towards an empty bench,
my favorite writing spot.
My neck is constantly pivoting,
watching and observing
the scenes around me.
Some passersby's look my way,
perhaps their wondering,
what it is I am doing.
I write to understand myself and the world around me || Trying to be as human as I can be