THE POEM OF MY HEART
THE POEM OF MY HEART
I sat
on my chair with a deep-wounded heart
Facing downwards
with no sign of art
My pen
was lying dried beside
The
paper was lying wrinkled beside
The
folds ironed by my burning heart
The pen
filled by my fluids of heart
I felt that
the art was coming from top
Inflowing
the brain, piercing the top
My hand
moved slickly to fill up my paper
The
blood-filled letters and words on the paper
I
opened my eyes from my insentient stage
To perceive
the piece of my heart on the page
The
shape of that piece was similar to verse
‘The
poem of my heart’, I entitled that verse