The Folded Poems

One day I decided to write a poem a day. I called it "The Folded Poems" because I pretended finding them under a chair written on the folded pieces of paper. The only criteria for the poems to be, was my own endorsement. I was the judge. If it "sounded" right, I kept it. Keeping with the pace, though, was not easy. Here I am posting them up to date. I am still writing, but not necessarily every day.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

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Collecting damaged things may grow into passion when wholeness feels nothing but pretense. My cobalt Turkish vase is just a fragmentation w...

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Her psychic's overrun by road traffic. The screams for freedom to express may deafen quiet mouse inside her shirt. Unfettered spells of...

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I lived a life of a woman and reached the age of an artist, and there is no such thing as turning back.

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Once I was told that art is not about feelings but purely an intellectual journey. These awful concept hit me in the belly like a bullet an...

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A crow on a tree may signal isolation to anyone who slows at the sight. He may be dead, or so deafened by loud bellows of the wind that tic...

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Embarrassment creeps from under the sheets of cowardice. A taste of currency on a delivery ship's tongue. The hardest part about being ...

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All ladies were in love with Tyrant, who paid them visits via their dreams. He was in their dreams, the tyrant who was real, and real men a...
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