When I lift my pen
With the intent to write of you
My fingers can go on until 
They form wrinkles on themselves
By this I mean I can go on and on 
And on
And some more 

But when I want to write 
About the things that matter 
Not just to me, but others like me 
And others like you
About the world
About the sky with its infinite emptiness 
And the moon which cries 
When it fails to illuminate the land
Upon nightfall like the sun does in the day
About the waterfalls that push from their edge 
Millions of drops of water 
Which fall to their deaths only to
Become one with the river 
And live once again
About the birds that fly 
Above our heads in the sky
Aiming their feces onto the scalps of men 
Failing almost all the time before trying again
About the worms that crawl beneath our feet 
Whispering to the dead 
The secrets of the ones that live

When I wish to write 
About all these things and 
Other things that have nothing to do with you
I seem to fail
Almost as if I don't want to write of them 
But why is that so
Because the world is just as
If not even more beautiful
Why is it that my mouth opens up 
Into a yawn so wide 
I might as well consider to be tea
The Arabian Sea 
And swallow a quarter of it in 
One single gulp

I have too many questions 
A lot of which I don't even 
Seek an answer for 
A few on the other hand 
I'm scared of what their answer might be
Let it be
I shall simply leave these answer-less questions here
Out of ignorance or out of fear
And take my leave 
I shall now go do something
That I can do even with my eyes closed 
I shall now go 
And fall asleep