in wine there is wisdom

sitting in this small room,

full of canvases,

same facing me some facing to a wall

and cheap bottle of red wine,

in my hand,

drinking again,

trying to find a soul again,

in wine,

in wisdom,

writing poetry again,

because there is nothing to do,

there is no one to talk,

and the ones who is around,

are too sane

that they seem insane,

caring about money and nothing else,

working 12 hours and coming home

and having a cup of tea before bed,

how can they understand my

suffering caused by unable to create,

they dont create,

they are machine like creatures

who came to life by

accident..

and there is no meaning for them,

but money,

earn enough amount to live

and be happy.

im a human being,

im here to create,

and leave something that is mine,

poetry or painting,

i know though,

that they dont go together,

thats why i dont write when i paint,

and i write,

when painting is tired it self.