I have so many ideas swirling through my
Head, I never know which ones to write
Down, which ones to commit to memory,
Which ones to care for like my child.
So many of my thoughts I abort, and
For different reasons.  
Maybe this idea will slowly corrupt my mind,
Maybe it will harm someone else.  
Maybe it will be worthless in time,
Maybe it is already too old.
Yet what should I do with these
Thoughts I’ve aborted?
Just because I’ve discarded them,
Doesn’t mean they’re entirely forgotten.
Does a mother ever forget an aborted child?
Does she forget the feeling of the child in her womb,
The raging hormones, the night of conception?
Of course not.
My ideas are the same,
Still there in the back of my mind,
Wanting to be alive,
Breathing, Functioning.
If you had an idea that would stop
World hunger, create world peace,
Find the cure to cancer, or
Stop humans from harming the earth,
Would you **** it?
Then why would you do the same to
A child who could have those ideas?

I could split the earth in two with my bare hands
I could tear the sea from the sands
I could devour all the pain that's in the world
I could soak up all the anger that's been hurled
I could crush all the demons in the palm of my fist
I could destroy all the murderers that enlist
I could silence all the bullies with a single glance
I could halt all the deviants before they advance
I could protect the children from all that's in store
I could save the innocent from famine and war
I could stop all the tears before they did fall
I could halt all the tyrants before they could rule
I could heal all the sick so that they had perfect health
If only I could save myself.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

Before I could pause
   to look or think
   the moment had turned away
   quicker than a wink
   the day, time, faces, scene
   human voices, the city's stir
   the kaleidoscope that captures life
   at every bend and encounter
   we are the product of engagements
   a thread in the common human fabric
    mysteriously connected
   as binding segments
   though we are in no way related
   had never met one another--

  time is too abstract
  doesn't make real sense
  only the moment defines
  to be retrieved in future junctures
  the now is the living and reality
  in the distant photo-album
when we are gone
we would just be images
and long-forgotten pictures.