e-Paper Poetry of Vinx

Home » 2016 » November (Page 2)

Monthly Archives: November 2016

3 decades

  • ​For about 3 decades I’ve fed
  • I wonder the uniqueness in a head, 
  • The singularity of life selfs, 
  • The indefinably existence, 
  • Life to me is like real magic… 
  • An unexplainably beautiful ink
  • Painted on the surface of earth.

Vessels of myself

  1. ​There are lots of fun in the nose of picnics
  2. It distract us till the bucket has its kicks
  3. I still can not make out the logics…..
  4. … Of myself, in me and my soul within
  5. Or was I told that tick… tick is a lonely inn
  6. Conceptualized to contribute to its hard fin
  7. That takes me diving deep into a rivers
  8. To swim in dry comfort and wet pains..
  9. To a point I await no motion or rays….
  10. Indeed I’ve faced the tip of a knife
  11. In the directions pointing the fingers five
  12. All are made to individually dance a jive…
  13. What a confusing complex logics of life
  14. For I still cannot figureout the model of life
  15. Fishes even get drown in an ocean of life.
  16. Do you know life is an endless hole
  17. Oh we are its vessels and roses are our soul
  18. Only God knows where exactly it shall go.
  19. Sad I can not describe the content of a shelf
  20. Where I rest my head and draw myself…
  21. When only I and I, can apparently feel myself.

Melody and I

  • Oh o ho o ho o ho… Hold my hand
  • O sweet melody from the air, water and sand
  • Orchestral of comfort that I’ve  always heard
  • Long before the smooth rough passage a crying song was sang
  • Long before my femur bones grew though and long
  • Like a heart, it’s a rare kindness, that of shall I brag
  • Don’t change the sound even if she’s lost, she will be found,
  • Don’t you know, without her the birds will be dead
  • Don’t you know, without her the clouds will go blind?
  • I will be damn if the music stops to bang
  • I will stay up late all night in a pit I shall dig
  • Incase the hummingbirds refuse to sing
  • Melodies from the back of my black tougue
  • My own sugar fire, tongue of a hot fog
  • Making reality from the sounds where fantasies belong…
  • Wake up sweet sleeping melodies of peace,
  • Would the drummers stay off their sticks
  • When the set of drums produce vibrations?
  • That is an answer when the flowers shall wither, 
  • Then I will be damn if it happens while the rain is a singer.
%d bloggers like this: