A man
smoking alone
in his room.
The clock
keeps watching
and singing all night.
You can feel them
and try to ignore them.

Everything sad--
A soul has left,
we are crying
to act that
we are living.
A man stands
under the tree,
hanging his heart
to think
it will be free.
He needs home
to be loved,
he needs home
to feel a love.
The night was dancing
without the music.
Everything sad--
in the silence,
we know that
he has gone.

A season
has grown
in the room,
and a man
has sold
his body
in the cold silence
lamenting loneliness,
listen to the conversation
which looks like a shadow.
From outside the window
he saw the seasons about to change.
A sparrow is chirping there
welcome the mating season
coming soon.
Lovers
sit opposite
while kissing
on the park bench
let go of longing
away from the hustle
and bustle crowd.
Falling leaves in the courtyard fall scattered like joy
free from branches.
Maybe the time has come
he left the door
from all affection
the former.
A piece of paper he wrote
and a hanging note at the door.

"Which you have left here, you shouldn't have taken it out later."

I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.

I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.

I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.

I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.

I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.

I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.

I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.

I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.

Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.

If only a few poems could make you fall in love,
I would make them for you
all the feelings I put together;
just to tell you.
If only words were easier for us
to understand the feelings we experience,
If only love made everything less complicated,
And I don't have to reveal it.

I am holding
my last cigarette
and sitting.
Reading my favorite novel,
Vanity Fair.
Pouring the wine.
I used to drink all the night
with some friends
that nobody knows about them.
The poem was written after,
the ***** poem.
They told me
sometimes my poem was about it.
It was too late to say
that the things they only have
is about ***** mind.

Some people are mad
   here I am writing some lines
   that you never read.