Night time wonderings

What happens to their dreams when people die?
Do they get burried too?
Or like seeds; they grow?
What happens to the tears people cry?
Do they dry like auntumn leaves?
Or like rivers and streams they always flow?
What happens to the stars in people’s eyes?
Do they ever return with the night?
Or under the sunlight they always hide?
I wonder, I wonder what happens to the dreams when people die!

The Heavy Pen

The ink has been wandering in my heart pushing itself to come out through the pen and fall on the empty paper; fall on the paper and say what it had explored inside. The ink is dark, like a night without the moon;
Or the stars.
And It smells like smoke.
Or maybe ashes.
Yes, ashes.
And ashes don’t write. They only bleed.

Beauty of Age.

I wonder why people always complain about growing up. Growing up is so beautiful. It gives us wisdom, and knowledge, and experience.
I want to grow.
Meet new people.
Listen to the music.
Understand poetry;
Sure a child can party and sleep whenever he wants. But I want to wake up, and travel, inhale different sunrises and absorb different stories.
I want to feel love; and heartaches. I want to see people leave in the hardest of my times. I want to see my wrinkles take over my beauty. I want to see my hair grow grey and then white.
I want to grow up; and witness life happening.