There is no calm, there is no peace.
My poems –
just restless afterthoughts.
Is it the withdrawal symptom of a changing weather,
maybe after a day or two,
my heart will find its mystical ease.
I wish it was effortless,
To be so many and not just one.
A tiny bit taken from all good souls,
understanding deeply the core of my own.
But I am so restless,
even tears need reasons to implore.
What a blithe cry of melancholy again,
the emptiness of being, creeping on my mattress again.
Go away, I beg.
The good souls need to do what they do the best.
I will pray for a little longer,
in a hope to silence the devil in my head.