Thoughts about the poetry

The Poem of My Heart

Conversations with a friend

Sometimes my soul is there — in the poem, but no one understands what I mean… No one hears my melancholic cry, and even the echo does not answer me.

Perhaps some other time. You may need to choose different words.

Ha… Yes… Maybe someone will understand me, but once again — not quite right.

I hear your sigh. Sometimes, writing is like standing at a crossroads.

I’ll write another poem. My words want to embrace the stars. They touch them, but my fingers feel just ice… There is no warmth in the dying embers. Isn’t it a curse to be a poet?

You may describe so many different worlds. You may fly away in your thoughts. You may reach wherever you want with the wings of your imagination.

Many different worlds? Who will look inside them with their eyes? Who will feel them with their pure hearts? Who will have a soul to see them? It is so easy to harm me. It is so easy to kill my heart. It is not a surprise how many people of creation leave this world alone. No one understands them. Their souls are broken.

They are so vulnerable. They cannot bear the reality… They do not fear. They feel unnecessary. Yes… Every little pain is theirs. Their poems are traces of time. They are small trails of fire amidst the spreading darkness…

My soul is there — in every single line. It is like I am planting a flower. I am waiting for it to grow. And my pain is also there, hidden between the lines. It’ll stay forever in my heart.

Thank you for reading this poetic conversation.

If you want to see some other such conversations, they’re here: