poet without borders

the

poet looks at me with his blind eyes

and tells

my soul has gone through a bitter water

my soul has gone through a young slender

years went by open wound

yes

he writes with my fingers in the air

golden bird

slides of his words at me

with golden wings she flies at me

burn

and melts in ash

now

I will not finish the whole story

he says

it is sad

so sad that he cannot complain

road ends at the ocean edge

swinging

the Irish hip

today I will get drunk

man

youth is like the rain

aging as rain

life as rain

without death is not poetry

man

I am knotted blind behind images

I sell illusions

words

vanity dressed in bright clothes

yes

I

read poetry from people

from streets

written on stone walls

I cannot sell my soul

the poem wrote on the heart

crawling in the words

and

words sometimes have too much weight

we crushed bones

hop

we fall in the knees

dance for life

sobbing like blade saw

words sometimes grow in us an ant hill

my friend

if you want to understand me

if you want to know me

learn my soul language

you have to pretend otherwise