Memories.
They are my most precious possessions,
Yet my most terrifying regrets.
They lift the curves of my mouth,
Yet haunt the cells of my mind.
They bring back all my regrets,
And they help make the path of my future smoother.
Memories bring wisdom.

If on some night—
You feel utterly alone,
Even if unknowingly,
Just once, let me know.

I will be the silver moon—
Sending you a gentle gleam of light!

If the sun’s fire begins to burn you,
Then at least once—
Remember me.

I will be the cloud—
Weaving a cool canopy,
To stop that burning pain!

If you wish—
To wholly become mine;
Then send me—
A flying letter from the clouds!

I will be—
A strong embrace,
Wrapping you close to me!

Words flood my brain
Tsunami
Rain
Depression eats away
Should I leave
Or stay
Anxiety rattles me
Fingers busy
What will I be
Tomorrow

(can art occur without an artist?)

Maybe the question is wrong.

Maybe art doesn’t begin
 with the artist.
Maybe it begins
 with a condition.
A field.
A stillness.

Something opens
  and something enters.
Not summoned.
Not owned.
Just… appearing.

A melody you hum without knowing why.
A shape your hand draws while thinking of nothing.
A line that arrives mid-walk
 with no sender,
 but undeniable weight.

Did you make it?
Or did you just
 stop being in the way?

Art, sometimes, is what happens
 in the absence
 of authorship.

It doesn’t ask for identity.
It just needs
 an opening.

A body willing
 to vanish
  long enough
  to let it speak.

Every friend when meets,
Seems an angel sent to us,
By the god from his providence,
But when departs after fulfilling,
His ends  selfish  and cunning,
All incidents of past moving.
In sky of our inner gloomy world,
Making us  cry and buzzing sad,
Echo of pain within ending world.