Rain knocks outside my window.
Rain falls inside my room.
All my poems and the notebooks
they are in – dissolve.
My poems have died on the page
and still they remain in my life.
Some grew out of the pain inside.
A few I have saved to memory.
The years come and go just like the rain
that leave mirages on the road.
I write to capture the possible
and the impossible all at once.
I kill what I cannot recall.
I’ll make a collage out of rain-soaked
words and conceive a new language
that only the jealous could not understand.
I write mostly for myself.