My Words Are My Weapon

Your blades can not cut deeper than mine,
For yours cuts the flesh and mine cuts the soul.
Yours was forged with iron and steel,
While mine was forged thousands of years ago
evolving as man has evolved through the fires and heat of time itself.
Your blade weathers and becomes blunt as you battle with those who wield the same,
my blade becomes stronger with each battle and absorbs the power of the befallen.
Your blade is rigid and taut,
my blade wraps around your mind
affecting you with and without your knowledge - forever changing form as I desire.
Your blade anchors you to the earth and burdens you with its weight,
my blade is light as the air that carries it and moves faster than the eye can see.
So, your blades will never cut deeper than mine,
For yours cuts the flesh and mine cuts the soul.

I Am Here

As I chase Tomorrow,
I myself am chased by Yesterday,
For there is no place for me in the Present,
Often, I wonder if the concept of the Present is an illusion in itself.
By the time I have written this,
it will have also become the belonging of Yesterday,
Dull and dark like the shadows that follow us,
Mimicking without substance.

For a man, there is only black and white,
There is only night and day,
There is only life and death,
and there is only tomorrow and yesterday.
Yet, as I stand here, I am of two men,
Body and mind,
and can live in two worlds,
Yesterday and Tomorrow,

Without ever touching either’s horizon.

Words Are My Soul

My soul is divided,
Divided into an infinite amount of pieces,
Each part residing in every word in existence,
Separated but forever promised to me as mine.
Only when I form sentences am I closer to becoming whole,
Becoming myself,
Becoming complete.
I explore these countless combinations of words
and see many different faces of the familiar stranger,
questioning his identity.
I seek for him through my poetry
and see a thousand reflections of him different each time.
Maybe, he is the collage of my expressions,
Showing me different aspects of myself to me.
Just as we fail to see what lies before us, perhaps I have failed to see this mirror.
So as I string together words, the familiar smell of home draws me closer and closer to myself
the remnants of a simpler time.
So, until I am able to reunite myself, my existence is my words,
my words are my soul,
and my soul is my poetry broken,
Until it is broken no more.