You are my idol
You is it, who manages to make me smile
When I am down in the dumps
You are an amazing poetess
Imagine, could your writing ****
Then die, the oppressors shall
One of the fiercest voices against injustice
Always, are you ready to make sacrifices
For the benefit of humanity
And the transformation of our extremely regressive society!

You are my idol
Always, do you manage to cast a spell
Through your mind-shattering poems
As well as edge-of-the-seat novels
An enchantment that is almost impossible to lift
Really, are you a gift
To the literary world
So much do I love, the way you play with words!!

You are my idol
Never, are you idle
Buzzing with ideas all the time
Truly, is your mind sublime
You are the light to my darkness
The fire to my icy coldness
The humour to my seriousness
The subtlety to my directness
The list is endless!!

You are my idol
I like you more than I hate Israel
You mean as much to me
As independence means to the Palestinians
It was such an honour to see you perform
Last December, at G5A Warehouse
In front of a full house
That I felt I was in a dream
It was indeed a surreal feeling
May you keep performing and inspiring
May all your dreams come true
And may Jesus bless you!!

tonight I am a poet
but that could just be
the drink talking

No talking Yeet Yeet
They know


      Whooo
      Whoooo
       Whooooooooooo

Wasnt me!
RICK FLAIR
          
                               DRIP

Saiĺing in life's boat
Tides rising high, shall you ride
Or dive in water?

i just want to see
if he texted me back.
no, no,
i don’t really care,
it’s just that
when i talk to him, it feels as though my words are finally worth something.
it’s not like i cannot go by my day without his acquaintance,
i am a writer after all,
and i am accustomed to a life where my words are disregarded.
i speak to the wind and that is okay.
but i am a writer and all i want is
for somebody to listen to my ramblings
and to understand
me.
i just want to see
if he said hello;
because yes i can get by with him not texting me back,
my rants do not always have a response
(discontinued)

Maybe being insane
Is the curse
That was gifted
To every writer

Dark caverns of cranium so vast they get lost in the immense black abyss

There are zero ways to depict the frustration that writer's block is

The sentence fragments stab wounds into soul until blood is gushing out

The only method I know how to start mending is to verse something sane

A poem that can untangle the knot of multiple conflicting emotions winding it's way through my skeleton

Oops, I edit
As I go,
I take a step
Then erase it.
It’s counterproductive,
Don’t I know,
But I see the flaw
Then I chase it.
It won’t go away
‘Til the mirror is shattered,
Whether or not
It actually matters.

So I’ll cut and I’ll add
I’ll rewrite, double back
Only hoping that you’ll
Love what’s left
In the end.

Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

land