Truth be told, I have nothing to say
Nothing of worth to fill up your day,
So I apologize for wasting your time
As you read this useless series of rhymes.

There once was an immortal man who thought he had it all
The world in his hand, resting in groove of his palm
And nothing could or would stop his conquest
Until he met a challenge that he simply could not best.

He had as long as he needed to beat this task
But he got it, couldn't do it, and gave up just as fast
Avoiding this issue, he sulked through his years
And too proud was he to stop and dry his tears.

And soon he slipped into a sour state
His stubbornness leading him to a horrifying fate
That of a human who is unable to be just that
Feeling less like a dude, more like a dog, chimp, a rat

Day in and day out, he remained in his chair
Fearing another obstacle, he stayed in his lair
And for that matter, his skin became pale
And his eyes, ears, and even nose began to fail.

Yet to this day he is still barely alive
And in his agony, his inhumanity he still writhes
Thinking about that thing that he could not defeat
Wishing that stain on his life, he could delete.

The death of a man is not when he stops breathing
But rather when he stops believing
In the fact that there is always something to be gained
A rainbow most often finds its way when it has just rained

People have been searching for a way to live forever
Which should be the same as never dying, aren't I clever?
If we simply keep on living,
Never stopping, always giving,
Then we'll keep on getting
Finding something worth the suffering,
And that version of immortality sounds a hell of a lot better.

Part I

Out of death,
My shallow grave,
I rise.

My eyes
With godlike vision,
They can see through

The dark
The gloom
And the mind.

Lonely is the road,
tread by wheels,
Watching them go.

Spectrum of colors,
Halo's gold,
All fading into oblivion.

Vacant houses,
keeping - lost words
- in

Lines that cross faces,
so familiar,
Don't write their names.

No recollection
of the light
in their eyes.

Captain of the Titanic,
Sail on.
My skin is cold.

Stale blood running
in veins,
I can't help but to overhear.

Roses on a wooden box.
The world is dying,
I remain.

Part II

Of eternal life
and punishment,
I confess:

The sin
of Nostalgia
in my static heart-

For longing
to burn
down the world,

Not for creation
of new
in the ashes,

but for destruction,
that will
end all destruction,

for one last collision
of life and death
joined into one.

The wind blows on a restless night
No fright, sight or cloud creep around in the tranquility of darkness,
A drizzle, brought by a softer breeze from seemingly nowhere drives near, dispersing the light brought by the sweet waning gibbous moon
And so, a grand rainbow, yet dim has been cast across the dark sky, filling it with both hope and glamour and blessed optimistic tender,
Impulisive shooting stars, racing across the sky and illuminating it,
In great numbers, one would think someone let the stars rain down instead, as they shine, then shoot across the horizon, never to bee seen again, each wishing, leaving their bright trails behind as travelers,
Appearing like a cosmic chess board, the flare stars dance in a festival of pure energy in the light of a white nights eternal moon, beaming,
The legend of a first wish, travelers which bring infinite fortune, brought to those whom believe in a shooting stars power and might,
The legend of the second wish, simply infinite power brought in light
And the last wish is carried by the realisation of transience, right before the night has come to its end, a last traveler shoots across the sky, it is the wish of immortality, an eternal life which cannot vanish.
But, the last wish, is a greater curse than hell or death itself.

~ Umi

i've never once liked it
whenever you tell me
that all first loves
never work out.

because i know that after all
these years of
suffering and pain,
you still make me want
to rest eternally,
yet continue this forsaken life
and live again.

I'm seeing a lot of poems,
about poets, their love and immortality.

I've also seen a lot poems,
about poets, their anger and immortality.

I'm yet to see a poem by a poet,
devoid of love, anger, heartbreak or jealousy.

Because, hey, we are after all people,
people, who feel love, anger, heartbreak and jealousy.

So bear with us for a while,
before you decide if your presence in my poem makes you laugh, cry, fume or smile...

I,
have spent  
the last  
three hours  
crying.

My eyes sting
and my entire
face feels like
this dull yet
numb pain
that I couldn’t
compare to anything
other than a gunshot wound.  

Each time my  
heart beats without you it
sounds like a loud
boom.

Maybe because
there’s a
hole in my heart
that I try to fill
with memories of
things that I did for you,
all the compassion
and trust you placed in me.

All the times
I got to hold you,
feel your heartbeat against mine,
see you take each breath and
relax into me.

There are
memories we
have that I  
will never forget.
Each memory
placed in a tear
which I’ll keep
in a little glass bottle
with your name written on it.

I wish your
last memories
were never filled with pain
that you could have been  
graced with dignity not
suffering - I
wish I could have helped you.

Maybe if I looked  
into the warning signs,
read a little more online,
maybe if I looked you and
cared for you just
a little bit more -

I wouldn’t
have to carve your  
name  
into
a stone.

Who are you? I will probably never know.
Your words are decorating my bending soul.
In silent mornings when I drink my aromatic coffee
Reality disappears, and hypnosis unfolds.

Who are you? The longing that knows my heartache,
Words that I used to believe so easily?
A mute Self, between much white and much black,
Looking constantly for himself in the gloomy parade?

Who are you? You are the world's greatest discovery
Who learnes all about the soul's immortality?
Who sees ice and fire in two distinct colours
And silence speaks to you in tremendous words?

Who are you? A soul with congestion of lava
Who can erupt anytime, leaving behind just waste?
Or a heart pulsing, passing through conversion
And hides his feelings through lyrics and prose?

Who are you? Are you heaven's demonic angel
Who lives and has the courage to shout in the silence,
Who often plays serenades through written poems,
Through mute words, non-words with the gates closed?

Who are you? The one who thinks white will turn gray?
The one who hopes one day black can become white?
Try to see in the fog more colours of your life,
Don't care about time, dual space or duration.

14.01.2018 London