A poet’s mind
The pen is the translator of a torn-apart soul’s misery;
The heart is waiting for the brain’s sudden epiphany;
The vast white pages are the canvas for the falling, longing tears,
And the caged birds are patiently waiting for the relief of our fears.
We are hopeless romanticizers, that see the needle in the haystack;
Delicate and forever loving black swans, forever wanting back;
Courageous believers, who see the sprinkle of truth in any storm of lies;
We observe the stars and how they meticulously align.
We paint with the colors of our feelings, the world’s most precious language;
Brushing past the history of our beloved ancestors’ heavy baggage;
An antique craft of tortured souls, a nightingale’s mesmerizing concert;
We translate with verses our pain and our ruby-red hurt.
We are cloudy minds, covering with eye-catching words a fragile facade;
We are the creators of the world’s lightning-struck masquerade,
Overthinking, overanalyzing, over-dreaming, we take the fall;
We are the dancers, in the middle of this ridiculous masked ball.
We bleed our crimson blood, we scream our deluge of feelings;
We cry the pouring rain, we make the roses red with our bleeding;
Who would know that we are the green grass covering the grave of our past;
Growing flowers in a soil that will break, that will never last.
We are the moon, circling around and glowing in the night;
We are the grey curtain of sadness, hiding the bright blue sky;
We listen to our destiny’s whispers, words could never convey,
How we float around the gravitational pull, it’s a cosmic ballet.
Our melodies flow like slow rivers in spring;
We are proud lions, leaders of emotions, fighting to be king;
We’re solitary birds, we have millions of thoughts to say,
And loneliness crawls in, when after a crime, we fly away.
We are the soft haunting shadow, we are the silhouette,
Of our past’s most deep-cutting, ever-bleeding regrets;
We try to jump off that speeding, dangerous train,
But we still stand in the memory-loaded rain, waiting in vain.
We construct a mirage, because we need a comfortable lie;
We find ourselves pretending that rainbows come to life,
Because as it seems, sun and rain, make the sky turn hopeful,
We forget about the unknown, about what’s “oh so awful”.
And as the sun sets, we still are mortals, like everybody else
But when we leave this precious pearl, we leave a white farewell
So, don’t ask us to forget, what we ever felt inside;
Because you never die, oh darling, how could you ever die, in a poet’s mind.