I knew it
But couldn’t resist.
I knew it
Didn’t want to desist.
It happened
Just like she predicted.
I am now addicted.
Just touch me and hold me tight.
I know I can go through it tonight.
Needy me -not my type,
Can’t do much but just type.
Type a typo, restart,
Mistype, delete, and retype.
Type and type
Until the words seem bright;
It feels right.
Gone astray in intricate feelings
Emotions? They make up the meanings
Physically, I can’t get my bearings
Can’t do much but just type
I know I tend to over-type
Over and over, each poem the same type
Yeah, that’s my style, my type
Never, ever stereotype
Be open and you‘ll thrive
Get used to it: that’s my type!
Beril
03/30/09
Poetry is one's break down between the writer's blocks -a failed attempt to get back to sanity
Melancholy inspires my mind
"The chemistry of mind and that of love is different. Mind is cautious. It takes its steps cowardly. "for god's sake, avoid yourself!" it suggests. However, is love like that? The only thing it says: "Leave yourself, let it go!" The mind won't collapse easily. Love instead frazzles itself, it gets devastated. However, treasures are to be found in wrecks. A devastated heart has it all!" (Translated by me from Ask, Elif Safak)
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