The lights come on, The Violins play, And I see her spin Like a dry leaf coming down in the wind. I'm scared... But know that the tree is tall enough,
By Abel Johnson Thundilabout a year ago in Poets
I told you and you didn’t listen. You wanted to see my soul. You wanted to know where the poems came from. I opened it for you
By Abel Johnson Thundil2 years ago in Poets
You're a score sheet And I'm a piano. I kept you on a stand and tried my best. I am a new student, And you’re a piece written by the devil himself.
You are An orange butterfly on blue pebbles, A humming bird opening to hug a flower, A kiss given in a dream. You are
Night, A hanging lamp, Rain, An umbrella And both of us under it Kissing, Rain drops rolling down to our shoulders.
I look at the poor woman Unable to get out of bed, Surrounded by tubes, Cylinders And beeping machines with cool graphs.
The optimist Thinks he can swim, And jumps into the water. The pessimist Knows he can swim, But wears a floating donut.
They tie badminton nets tight enough, Claim the wind doesn’t blow, And blame themselves. They sail the seas in the same ship
The musician playing by heart Still keeps the book open. The wind through the gap Shouts for space. The raped girl
We are Running taps, Loudspeakers in sound proof rooms, Apples thrown away after a single crunch. We are something
You don’t call anymore, And I have nothing to say. A fly sits on the apple with brown spots. I wave it off and eat it.
I'll wait for you On this rusty bench near an overflowing rubbish bin, Spray painted with black and red symbols That look like some ancient language.
