Just like closing a book without reading a page,
Or as to a child who is tired of being a kid;
Like a preacher that won’t stay in a pulpit so long
Or to a sprinter who leaves from the running throng.
No time for laughter or for returning a grin
Or consoling oneself for the pain deep within;
No self-pity or pride to be felt by the heart
Yet reserved and reluctant for another start.
Sleep is precious and so desired by the mind
Having no urge for a smoke or for the spirit of wine;
No more is the longing for a kiss or embrace
When the will of a man only needs its own space.
Like a rooster of the dawn that would be cackling no more
As the dew that would dry without wetting at all.
Or a poet who used to spend some long sleepless nights
For the mind is now stalled with nothing to write.
No more rhyming lines or a tune for a song
Though the art for the craft is still able and strong;
But to rest and to rest is what the soul ever wanted
For the spirit that is numbed and so exhausted.
Date & Time of Writing
November 19, 2011
1:32pm – 2:05pm
I had a sleepless night and feeling the pain within my heart up to the time of this writing. I am simply getting impatient of my own patience. I feel that, for such, I become vulnerable to exploitations and blatant lies. Albeit, I still strive to be fair by keeping the pain within myself and hoping that at the end of this particular writing the pain I have inside would be just a driving force of coming up another piece of a candid poem.