The creators in love

I think artists are lovers
absolutely and utterly in love with life
they can’t get over every touch every sound every glimpse
So overwhelmingly beautiful
Unbearably beautiful
Just like a soul in love
they are consumed with making it last
making her his
making him hers
making him his
futile attempt to owning the moment
& so they create,
and we call it art
The unbearably beautiful moments,
the summation we call life
love letters to the moments in life
moments they can’t bear pass by
moments. lovers.
they’ll beg, borrow and steal to keep


It is what it is

It is what it is
& yes it isn’t
or is it ?
Is it wishful thinking to think it isn’t
Is it simple minded to think it is
It all started with what it was
Then what was it ?
More importantly,
No, less importantly
What will it be?
Why does it even matter
After all,
It is what it is
for who it is



So What am I Today?

I always feared permanence.
So why, now, the hurt?

I’ll keep writing with my pencil
In notebooks without lines. Facing erasure.
How temporary.
They could burn,
or get lost,
or get stolen
Like their lacking lines
Which were stolen off the page.

I no longer know where, exactly
I am expected to write.
Or how,
Given that it will all change tomorrow.
I can only hope that my change will be directed
Towards my self,
That one I’m supposed to be,