Fools

They know definitions.
They know equations.
They know theorems.
They know it all,
But themselves.
Fools.

The Fishbowl

They say it is the best.
They watch its every move.
They show-off its beauty.
They feed it with the best.
They expect it to win prizes.
They watch its every move.
They keep it in a fishbowl.
They are proud of it.
They think it is happy.
But it is in a fishbowl.

(Untitled)

It is not cheap -
    The price of understanding.
It is very expensive -
    More so than diamonds,
    More so than Ph.D.'s
Understanding is not cheap -
    It is indeed priceless.
You cannot purchase it -
    Nor can you borrow it.
It is within yourself -
    You need only to discover it.
But do not wait -
    Do not let diamonds slow you down,
    Do not let exams sidtrack you,
    Do not wait for the discovery.
Only you can discover it -
    For it is within yourself
When you have found it -
    You will never desire for anything else,
    Because all else is cheap.
But this is not cheap.

(Untitled)

Before understanding, there was hope.
Hope that I would understand.
Understand the words on papers,
Understand the curves on faces,
Understand the acoustics of voices.
But something hope forgot to mention -
Understand oneself.
Now that I understand hope,
I hope to understand myself.

Dinner

A sheet of white paper it was on,
Disporportioned by a tear to the center,
Wrinkled from two foldings,
Wrinkled from being stuffed away.
A piece of tape held it to the door,
A door to a temporary home,
A door to endless memories.
A lady wrote on the paper,
With quickened strokes of blue ink,
With periods and question marks.
In the third line, a simple question:
"Wanna go to dinner?"

The sixth sense

Someone once suggested a sixth sense.
She said that the sixth sense existed.
It existed.
It exists.
"Impossible," a man said to her.
"Only five senses," said he.
"So you agree, then." said she.
"What?" said he.
"That the sixth sense exists," said she.
"I said no such thing," said he.
"Then you agree." said she.
"I do not understand," said he.
"Then use your sixth sense," said she.
"But I do not see it," said he.
"Do you smell it?" said she.
"No," said he.
"Do you taste it?" said she.
"No," said he.
"Do you hear it?" said she.
"No," said he.
"Do youf eel it?" said she.
"No," siad he.
"Then you must use the sixth sense," said she.
"But what is that?" said he.
"Need I repeat?" she finished.

Yikes

Who is that monster?
So ugly, so full of filth?
Why does it follow me?
Even to my dreams?
What does it want from me?
Who sent this monster?
Can I shake it loose somehow?
Must I face it when it is so ugly?
I have not even looked it in the eye,
Yet it scares me, why?
I do not remember the monster years ago.
No signs of that monster as a baby,
    No memories of it at all.
How nice that was to have no monsters,
    no beasts following me around.
Now the monster must be killed.
    It does not deserve to live,
    It does not deserve to exist.
I will personally kill it,
    Because I created it.
    Because I no longer need fear in life.
    Because I looked it in the eye.
Yikes!

Time

Time is linear, they say.
I think not.
Time may be nonlinear, they corrected.
I think not.
Time has gaps, they postulated.
I think not.
Time doesn't exist, I claimed.
I think so!

Soulmates

Do you know thyself?
If you do,
You have found her.
You have found him.
You have found your soulmate.

S.K.B.

I only had one S.K.B.
It was not even my own,
    I had picked it up somewhere,
   Somewhere a person was using the S.K.B.
I learned to use the S.K.B.,
   To use it to my heart's content.
I kepted it close to me,
   So close, I felt it against my skin,
   So close that it left marks on me.
I used the S.K.B. often,
   So often I would use it,
   So often it would work.
Then I noticed it dying,
   Gradually it was dying,
   Gradually its energy drained away.
I put it away before it died,
   Before I sucked all life from it,
   Before I would dispose of it.
I still have my S.K.B.,
   With its simple components,
   With its simple decors.
In a little shop, I found other S.K.B.'s
   cousins, I assumed,
   Perhaps descendents.
I bought several new S.K.B.'s,
   Full of life,
   Full of Energy.
And now my first S.K.B. rests,
   Waiting for the others to join it.
   Waiting to be drained its last drop of ink
For it is no more than a pen.

(Untitled/unfinished)

I sat facing a row of televisions,
Waiting for her to come,
Waiting for my love.
An old lady was selling fragrant flowers,
Flowers my love once bought.
The old lady came to me,
With all her confidence,
With all her flowers,
On one hand she held the flowers,
The other hand was open for change.
I could not refuse,
I gave her change.
I held her flowers. I was waiting.

The bus was to leave soon,
Where was she?
Where was my love?
Had she forgotten?
No, not my love!

I was heading for the bus
When she finally arrived.
Finally.
Her hair was loose, unbraided.
she held a single bag and came to me.
We had no time... (unfinished)