Author’s brief observation: I know that lately, I have been writing too many poems, but I can’t help it. I have nothing to say but words pour out anyway. I think sometimes I care so much, so much that ironically I begin to care less. This sentence doesn’t make sense but believe me it happens.
I do not want to say anything, really, if you have time then you can read the poem below but if you are busy then don’t read it. Doesn’t matter anyway.
Maybe I happened to myself,
Or maybe, quite likely,
Nothing happened at all…
If only I could happily ignore and go
If not that at least tell me how to cheerfully come home,
But nothing’s there,
In the way back, in the moments I admired but never loved,
I wonder, wonder what stone is inside me; Is it below or is it above?
I don’t think my tears have any meaning any more,
Though yes, sadness causes an unusually gratifying kind of low,
And happiness appears too worthless and too high,
What a pity state! I complain to the sky!
What must I feel? I am not even sure if I am even numb,
What else do I do? I settle for being dumb,
Has it always been this difficult to make even a little sense?
Or is it that all my wits are gone and my foolishness is immense?
I am tired of playing with ironies; my brain speaks in two different languages,
One I don’t understand and the one I do simply ravages,
I listen to them anyway, God! I wish I couldn’t!
I can do anything for some silence; there exists nothing that I wouldn’t
Maybe there does,
And hence remains the buzz,
That evergreen noise
That “sweet melodious” voice
I have been rambling.
Weirdly I have again been scrambling,
Fuck, don’t bother. You can be rude…
I wouldn’t mind I know my heart’s a dumb brute.