There are times when I get up close with nights…

getting drunk, getting the depressions out through the windows and show them the smogs all along the existence. 

There are times when nights of unfathomable porns come, dreams with Kohl eyed girls…getting naked, getting the poems out of there breasts.  

If you care to wait, you will see tranquility has either made a man an artist or a forgotten dust. 

I don’t know which I care for…

perhaps for the waiting to be done with most human way. 

You have to believe that a poem can’t be wasted on your possibilities on being a poet or being a no one, 

but I can tell you one of my drunk nebula fucking realisation, that…

‘half of this inhuman urge for alcohol would die down if water becomes a couloured liquid.’ 

So Its worth one more sunrise for metaphors and celluloids…

we wait and we become a speck of dust…in between there’s those nights of eternity with yourself, that goes for the waters to be coloured.