you say you dont know poetry
but you are a sixteen year old poet
when you are thirty five.
you walk up to any girls in your sight
try to start a conversation
you say you can read and write music
you say you had spent one night
making music of revolution
hiding away from the law that kills
You have so much to tell
don't you?
but i know you will die a good death
you are selfish as pig and greedy as dog
It's been raining since you bought your dark glasses
and you are crying for it
as you dont get a chance to wear them
you are not sorry for your town
you don't worry for your love as she is a spoilt brat
you are good with your lies and goodbyes
you try to get the daughter of the the man
who sells dead bodies back to their families
but you failed
and sometimes when you hear the song she used to sing
your mouth becomes dry and your heart breaks
you will go on like wont you?
my room sobs
as the walls drip the old paints
and my shoes with their tongues out
silently waiting for me
upon the torn doormat

the war was too loud
to notice all these..
now i am older and sober
but have forgotten
how to say goodbye to things


I dont remember August being so good.
the onions dont make me cry anymore
my clothes get washed on their own
the long lost umbrella popped up
and the cream rolls are stuffed with poetry
and there are hajmola pills around
Tomatoes and Mackerel are ready in the Kitchen
and my landlord is not coming to collect the rent

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