I can bleed a poem,
from the compass blades i cut
through my skins for
for directions unknown

For the life lived in
an inertia is better
than to feel and react.
The hysteria of the mind
is too violent to me
and all on my part
i can do is bleed in words

Because if nature abhors a vacuum,
like science says
in between that space
must be letters and sentences that rhyme
there might have been poetry sublime
And we can scribble them down on the
paper
Or we simply can bleed

forgotten ghosts
flutter around
in the background
of crowded rooms

dead or alive
neither would change much

but there's another
a lost
forgotten ghost
just like you
searching
hoping
to be found

and maybe
through the crowd
above all the empty laughter
and meaningless conversation
you'll catch their empty eyes
and see a light

crowded rooms
are a lot
like a lost and found

I don't know a lot of things about you, except the fact that your favorite color is blue, and that your name is unusual, and that you sometimes wear glasses. It's amazing yet worrying how three little facts can run every corner of my brain, pressing itself into every bit of the mess I call thoughts.
I see you in the wavering, blue ocean; one of the most beautiful sights on this Earth, but also one of the most mysterious; just as your eyes.
I see you in the blue ink I write my poems with; all inspired by you, your unusual name, your favorite color, and your black rimmed glasses.
I see you in the peaceful, blue sky, soon to turn into different shades of oranges and pinks, making the day fall into the other one; another day I'll live thinking about you and your unusual name, how good you look both with or without glasses, and that your favorite color is blue.