Wild

"Sympathy for quinche/ቂንጬ" (First love) I would say words that have been said and they would still be beautiful for they are heartfelt. But I don't trust my feelings dearest, I don't trust your dearness. If I didn't doubt it, I would tell you that I long for you, I thirst you in a way I never craved any earthly being, my days and nights are filled with with your sweet, torturing thought, you make me simple, I forget myself when I chase you around, I shamelessly try to borrow words from the poets before and after what you have made me to explain what I don't understand. They say it's a cycle, they say it's a stage but can't I skip? Aren't there exceptions? Am I not too big for this small humanity? Can't I be a phenomena to the quiet, natural process? Can't I sleep till you die? No! A deep deep sleep with no dreams of you so I can age to another stage far far away from you. How can you not notice me! Yes there are girls so pretty, so many around you but how dare you not find me the most beautiful! I would say "I love you" if I trusted myself.. and I'd pray to be yours if I didn't doubt that I wished for my wish. And you? What's your excuse?! You respect me too much to love me? Am I your friend? Or just a nobody? Am I too little? Too big? Invisible? Or am I just everywhere that I failed to make you need? And again, in my last day as a human, I hate you! Why is your name everywhere?

Neither of us is happy but Neither of us wants to leave So we keep breaking one another And calling it LOVE -milk and honey

‍The locust struck with its saw-leg in the sand, then flew, and a frightening flock flew behind it, aware of its biting mouths, and the wind blowing in waves. A swarm of locusts flew, and I stopped to pray the funeral prayer over a dead locust left behind. I will pray for her and dig her grave. The locust is conscious. And when consciousness ceases, we must take off our shoes, and kneel down to her, bidding farewell. The locust is a small lamp of consciousness. A lamp is as large as Deus' head, and when it is extinguished and its smoke rises, we must dig a rectangle for it so that it can cover its darkness. We, whether we are locusts or humans, are just a small sliver of consciousness. And when this comfort, this sedition, dissipates, it is wise to make her a grave. Thus, my collections of poetry has been published to be in its rest in 11 chapters, and it is available in Amazon on the following link, by the title, "To Drown in the Height" you'll find in stock on paperback. https://amzn.to/3THLexg