A poet never lies.
For he writes down
Emotion in disguise.

My writing is
For those who are willing enough
To let their minds
Whirl through
The words I utter.
For I speak no lies.

A decent poet
Dedicates his words
To others rather than himself.
For today I am a poet
With no manners.

Human beings
Are artists.
Born with an opinion brush
Along with a palette of hatred.
Letting their mobility
Depend on their subconscious mind.
Using agony as their canvas.

Ready to
Paint an image
Of one another.

Vision, having a portait painter
Painting your portrait.
Abruptly, he dissappears
Along with the canvas.

How bothersome
One might think
Having no idea
How the portrait painter
Painted you.

A poet never lies.
I have buried
My brush of opinions
Set my palette of hatred on fire.
For I have no manners.

Remaining the canvas;
'Oh poet I beg you
Do not destroy me,
For I do not mean any harm'.
So I wrote down on it, this poem.


Chaimaeelmas