The rhythm of my hand goes well with the drops of ink and with words floating in my brain. I do not have highfalutin words to speak of, instead, the way of my emotions and the labyrinth that my soul’s going through are the ones obliging me to put the significance of other’s life into scriptures. But, ironically, I do not find my life as important as others do consider it. The poetry of contrast the world has offered me evoked my sensations to be involved in its abyss. In there I grew, letting my entirety to be succumbed in angst, chaos, obscurity and insanity. I tried to reach and comprehend what others have to say. But then, when I speak mine, no one dared to listen. So I merely buried myself to the grounds, lips closed, with tranquility by my side.
I let my soul be caged, bleeding with verses of blunt poems. The eternal one brought me to my fallen state, my solitary freedom, where there is only darkness and no recline. He was the one who sent and made me street poet, with holes in my jacket, stones in my shoes and stains of remorse in my spirit. The irony of life, my illusions, false hopes, after thoughts, daydreams, agonies, memories made me a prison of words. And this unspoken prose is my destiny. Though I’ve been rejected repeatedly, sonnets make me the wholeness of my life and makes me hush all these words…… letting my spirit rise again…… to another life yet unlived.