Poetry in my Opinion

Being in love with poetry makes you challenge others,
With, you know, words never heard before,
Or even if they were, like diamonds and gold,
They would be used in such a way to never be understood,
And the funny thing is we wait and expect compliments,
From those pompous illiterates who cannot read nor write,
This story began when I once wrote a marvellous piece of writing,
Along comes a young adult shutting me completely up,
Then he says, "What a rubbish piece of writing!"
(Excuse me! I spent seven weeks on that!)
"By the way," and, oh my, I knew exactly what he was about to say,
Changing the subject was easy,
As you would always look for his, the wacky arrogant, favourites,
And in this case jewellery, like diamonds and gold,
Though, dissimilar to my diamonds and gold,
I must say, I should have sticked to simple language,
But, the thing is, what makes a poet a poet?
Erudition, if you ask me.

Tuesday, 2nd of March 2010



When I was a child I lived on
a very large farm next to the
slums of a global city. My father
took care of the cattle, and if
something happened to an animal
it was cut off from our food. The
reason of this did not matter, and
my father was always to blame.

I migrated to your well-known
city, this city, at the age of fifteen
seeking a fair life. I did not want
my beautiful children to be blamed
for everything. Unfortunately, I
can see things here are but the
same, everything is always our
fault. That is just how the world
is, and no one will blame you for
not changing. Though, sometimes
I ask myself: "when will things
amend? When will we dare to do
things differently? When will we
learn from our previous cruel
mistakes?" That is only my
opinion. I am nothing, no one.

Tuesday, 23rd of February 2010


Life of a Child

I only see the world from my little brown eyes,
I do not know what the future holds or when will I be set free,
Orphaned young never good at hi's and goodbye's,
Aunt gazes at the horizon in front of the blue sea,
Breathing deeply under the moon with silent cries,
She speaks of a mournful war where we had to flee,
Scary things were thrown by planes flying in the skies,
She speaks of its ending when the war yearned to beget me,
Am I a very lucky child? Am I a devil in disguise?
Have I stopped the war? Have I caused the debris?
Why kill my family? Why act on a mere surmise?
Should I change my colour or beg on my knee?
She looks at me smiling; all the pain she denies,
She opens a new page treating me as a marquis,
Going to the park sliding down sitting on her thighs,
Then playing hide-and-seek and I count to thirty three,
Embracing my mother's ghost through painful cries,
Enjoying my father's ghost's company in front of the TV,
I only see the world from my little brown eyes,
I do not know what the future holds or when will I be set free.

Tuesday, 23rd of February 2010