Heart Controller

The tip of my pencil used to break And I would sharpen it, The ink of my pen used to dry out And I would replace it, The lined sheet of paper used to fill out And I would turn the page, The blank sheet of paper used to finish And I would grab some more, But not today, Not anymore, The pencil is sharp, The ink is not dry, The lined paper is empty, The blank paper is in the box, But never will I scribble – A letter, Or a word, Or even a sentence, Or a mind’s paragraph, Or a heart’s essay, The pencil is still sharp, The ink is still not dry, The lined paper is still empty, The blank paper is still in the box. Thursday, 20 th of August 2015

Inscribe on it the tears of society, To be sent on the edges of universe, Let this stamp be on postcards, Let it be on asylum seekers, Put on it few symbols of life, Water, trees, sun, or even birds, And as for the choice of colour, Let it shine the shades of humanity, And remove all those numbers and currencies, And leave but one word, In hope that every soul whispers it, As they stick this stamp on an envelope, Peace! Thursday, 20 th of August 2015

The mist gradually enveloped my soul, Natural cycles of life halted, Branches of trees snapped, Leaves on the ground hardened, My back becomes more crooked, To look ahead was to open wounds, To move backwards only eased them, But the drums of battle pierced my limbs, I had few breaths left, And no chance of survival, Then a being entered my curse, The dark mist on my soul lifted, The waters of life returned, Now, my branches towards the heavens elevated. Thursday, 13 th of August 2015

A familiar face and a familiar body, And another, a friend with another, A moment captured like his camera, Like at the park or this sunny arch, Another moment of beautiful breeze, Awaiting for the yearned reunion, My eyes sitting on a flight of stairs, And I blink while he produced a portfolio, The one with another for a gallery, And I blink with the rushing of the river, Background noises and pigeon visits, The dog of the homeless almost lost, The dance of the seagulls up above, Awaiting for the yearned reunion, And I blink at the lady with the violin, Solo on the cobblestones near the arch, Random kid running away from her father, Her contagious smile spreads all around, And my buddy arrives followed by the others, Many moments captured with a blink of an eye. Friday, 07 th of August 2015

O old chief of a willow tree, Feed your branched offspring, Angry weeps from my wells, Filled by forgotten headlines, I know few facts to share, Wounds hold us together, Dreams lift us together. Though wars only – Deepen our wounds, Shatter our dreams – My Form Crumbles O old chief of a willow tree. Saturday, 15 th of August 2015

Write me a poetic pen, One that ties in with a branch, Ink letters on my shoulders, Let it bloom into a rosy moment, Extinguish a candle for the smoke, And pin down the running pen, But not until all has been said, Not until the whispers dry out, Make a weapon there and then, For the tongue has be struck, Blue, green, black, and red, Thoughts shooting out like stars, Each to highlight a corner, Merging for a delightful portrait, About this little poetic pen. Friday, 07 th of August, 2015