That’s why I hide,
Myself as a poet..
My poem is for me,
Mother, love and friend…
But you look at them
As a thing to buy,
And then throw some pieces
Of praise or criticize
No, that’s not the only reason..
My poem is not so fragile,
To be worried of
Flowers or throngs..
But,
How can I share my breaths with someone,
How can someone else live on my heartbeats
How can I borrow
Someone’s feet to walk
My road undefined.
And,
When I get lost within
My own boundries,
Who will tell me
Where my sky is,
If not my poem….
Comments