Something New

Poem By RIC BASTASA

things are meant not to last
there is always the right time for them to break
into pieces and no matter how we piece them together
they still shatter
like telling you that they are meant to go, to be broken, to be thrown away

a lap top has a time frame of its own
the virus come in waiting and then all of its essence is gone
you weep for things?
don't. They do not weep for you. You are sad when they break? Don't
They don't feel anything at all for you.

a car for twelve years is not your car anymore
the chassis simply take in rust and some wires get meshed up
with tantrums and like nerves they too go awry and die

malfunction so to say from the language of things and tools
now, we see each other. I am human. I am not a piece, a thing.
I am not a car. I am not a lap top with a time frame
for its breaking
a time for throwing and trading-in
a time simply for replacing

Look at me. I have tears. My skin bleeds when you hurt me.
My heart beats faster when you kiss me.

As we throw away what we do not need now
After all the years of keeping, we reflect.

I have this heart that beats for you. I have time outside the frame
of utility. We grow. We commit. We savor.We are present.

For twelve years now, You will always be someone new.
Let the sun shine. Let the heart beat for a new meaning. Love.

Comments about Something New

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

5,0 out of 5
2 total ratings

Other poems of BASTASA

' A Discourse On Pleasure '

there is something in other
people that we all love

adore

watashi Wa Wakarimasen.

until then
the moon never says
that it understands
the language of the

to The Light

to the light
we aim ourselves
away from darkness
we swear

Why Do People Keep Saying, I'M Sorry, For Things They Know They'Ll Do Again?

because people always forgive them
again and again and again and again and again and again...

a form of autism,

... So Much

at the second look you feel wasted
that beautiful face seemingly should not have been yours
it does not fit
the wrinkled soul