Old melodies, frivolous words, and late night coffee,
Too many books, thoughts, and anchors,
This is poetry for me, my poetry:
Sentences without verbs,
Sentences with fragments.
A dirty room, a basket full of laundry, and
Chipped nails with scraps of blue.
What defines life?
There is only one thing-the constant
Rise and fall of sternum,
As I exhale carbondioxide and inhale oxygen.
This is life in its raw fundamental Self,
Not Art, not Poetry, not Beauty
But human breath-nothing more.
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