This Poem

This poems has no meaning

But yet it racks your brains and cause to think

This poem is the suffering

Of that boy on the streets unknown

In the closed room

Of the worthless boss idly

It build an appetite for the violation

This poem is the prostitute

In the middle of the town

''Hurry, hurry

pay your money

Come and sleep with me all night long''

For tomorrow

You might know what I offered you

Nothing less than the incurable HIV

This poem was made to give itself

To surrender itself

To those men in blue and black

But yet it is not on the wanted list

This poem is the scavengers

Which performs post-Morten

On those who died mourned

For the death

Cannot receive double punishment

There will always be earth to cover it

When there are no coffins

This poem has no partner

But it offers companionship

For the lonely and the broken-hearted

This poem has no poet

But owns it to you

And to no one else

This poem goes to the market

In the kitchen

Yet unnoticed and unrecognized

This poems is ragged and dirty

Lives in benighted ignorance

This poem knows nothing of itself

It only surrenders

It walks arm-in-arm with you

Not only in darkness

This poem

Was a letter

I wanted write to you

my dear