Poem: The Charisma

I am not a poet.
Yesterday, At mid-night;
I killed mine poem

“In circle of thirsty feelings
those bloodied words became martyrs…”
dictionary, the country of words whispered.

I looked into mine heart:
the veins of sorrows;
the veins of ecstasies;
were fully nerveless, unconscious.
I sighed. I cried …

I asked to mine soul of truth,
Now, how can i cherish the full moon?
How can i decipher this zigzag life?
How can i impress myself?
I have no charisma at all.
I have no charisma at all.

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