I do not do drugs, I smoke leaves of grass
not Walt Whitman's grass.
They say I look and behave like a poet
I know what is their point.
All the comrades I saw, talk hell lots of sh*t
And don't know how to button their shirts.
I went to the woman when I had enough of this world.
The woman in white, leaning on the wall
pushes forth her well curved breasts.
Put her hand inside the bra like she is going to give me her best.
She took out the small brown envelope
like a sweet sixteen giving me her love.
I got my sweet grass now on my hand,
On my nerves, inside my veins.
Words within my mind begin the war of rhyme,
Musical notes lingering on in the air like hymn.
The sound awakens my fantasy of falling in love with a widow,
Now I can see vividly through my broken window.
She completes my incomplete poetry,
And points her finger at a fallen leaf.
Isn't that poetry without words.
She lies down on my wooden couch
that I got all the way from Mandalay, free of cost.
Her perfect body waters my eyes
and my lazy soul wakes up like the leaves in spring.
And I ask her, will you show me what is love and what
not love? What is the height of heaven?
Silence comes knocking on my door,
I throw away my smelly blanket.
I peep through the broken window,
With my swollen eyes like a bat.
The world, flying and falling down,
Shattering into pieces when the driver was overdosed.
The poor urchins, like the butterflies are colorful.
And am I not the yellow rose they hover around?
I throw away my smelly jacket,
And turn my shaven head towards my cat.
She hides her tail like a timid dog.
I shout at her, 'Don't you recognise me'.
Neighbours watch me clean my smelly shoes,
Seem to wonder if a revolution is on inside Akhu.
I, then, lock my house filled with smokes of grass
Not Walt Whitman's poems: 'Leaves of Grass'
I walk down the narrowest street,
Hoping not to fall off the track.
The cobbler asks, 'Are you searching for the strings? '
Someone shouts, 'A cigarette bud is what he's looking for'.
But I know, what I'm really searching for...
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