Your Death is on a Red Date
Will anyone ask about me when I never write a single word?
Will anyone search for my name when I never leave an impression?
My writing is me, my impossible self is my writing
My fingers work with my brain
But not with myself
My self is a collection of potential sinful behavior
My self is a composition of bones, flesh and blood
That may have absorbed illicit goods
My self is not mine, my environment has claimed it
Has anyone ever accepted me differently from my writing?
The sentences I write are victorious
Because they get friends and enemies who respect me
I want to include myself in my writing
I hope I can get the same respectful greeting
My writing is a production of my humble brain
Cannot interact with my behavior that is
Produced by my subjective intentions
My writing tells the world about me
While I never do the same
To my writing....
I don't really write poetry.
Words have disappeared since grief came to gnaw at me.
Tears fell into a dull white cup
I never really knew,
what the difference was between loneliness and solitude,
like I didn't know what grief and loss meant.
Days slipped from my grasp.
Mother combed my hair that was starting to get tangled:
I didn't want her to stop even though the pain was crawling through my scalp.
Mother, later I promise
to make the day of father's death a red date,
so that we can take a break while life goes on.
Mother was still combing.
Silence enveloped me like a thick cloak.
Beside the dressing table, I still saw my father's dull white cup, unable to move it.