That thing on the wall


why in the world
you lost it —

it always goes
that way
me talking to
someone —

staring the blank
and nobody was in there —

it’s just me all alone —

it’s about a poem been stolen
not actually
I just left it on the bench —

the thing not quite
let go on my head —

even until then —

there’s a lot
in me that moment
the sky were perfectly clear
small tornado of summer breeze
as the size of a broomstick
fooling some dirt and
dead leaves
near the trash bin
lifting them into thin air
then loosen by the unseen grip
fell wildly back to the ground
tilted back upward
throwed sideward and
then abandoned on the fire side —


the way the dog bully some cat
in the alley
as the cat cried louder
the dog laugh harder and harder
and I walked away
went inside the library
open the bamboo dancers
blubb-er-ish and gibber-ish —

it’s too late when I noticed
a brown envelope with
50 or more poetry
that I gibb-er-ish
and gibber-ish on a
white pages
day and night —

twilight to dusk —

and —

yes —

somebody stole it on that bench
it wasn’t there
but an old empty chair —

finders keeper
did he say…
dirt bag —

how many times
some good draft of novel been
left on the bus
or a poem
pick pocketed by a pimp
on a crowded place
there’s a lot of tale
i heard of
and the owner can’t
have a normal life
there after
they keep on muttering
bugger bugger
buggery —


please be civil
it might
just a trash
that if you finish reading it somewhere
don’t just
toss it aside
and said rubish
its all about me
after all —

a story i never told to anybody —

what I’m afraid of —

was —

hope the thing on the wall
that i kept on staring
doesn’t talk back
too loud —

coz —

nobody was in there —

it’s  just me
all alone.

” Back in college, I lost my poems on the bench and the one who’ve find it took it all and didn’t care to return it back to the owner and that’s me. I guess he or she threw it on the trash and said rubbish after reading.
For me…
Poetry is like a painting, a photograph, a sculpted masterpiece, opera composition. It was an art that you toil to create something beautiful even nobody care to read them.
Poetry is a piece by piece of who or what you are. It is the missing thing that makes your life complete. “


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