I am a reader
of a thousand stories and more
I am a lover
of the familiar scent in treasured hoard
paper and wood, freshly printed ink
I am an admirer
of simple words that tug the heartstring,
of emotions that make the heart sing.
I am a dreamer
of a hundred stories and more
I am a believer
in power of language, languages I adore
in the flow of a song, along with delight
I am a string of unfinished ideas
trains of sidetracked thoughts set alight
a flame that flickers out and rises to new height.
I am a writer
of ten stories but definitely more
I am a creator
of records in glimpses of a bird in soar
and its fall
I am not just a reader nor
just a dreamer or
just a writer
But to give any of these up my dead body you’ll cross over
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
There was no blank canvas
fresh pages nor empty void to fill
There was.
Delicate taps of dancing feet
Roars and screeches in constant symphony
They felt.
Skin curling from scorching heat
Dust choked the lung suffocated the brain
But the rain of fiery arrows still
fell
punctured
sank in them.
They couldn’t make it rain.
What is.
Howling winds crying out a message
Frantic scurrying to seek and secure
Before.
An ever growing snowball barrelled down a cliff
Frost devoured and gnawed for the last scrap of warmth
And then.
They reached. Struggled and crawled and climbed and fought.
For the faint drum of familiar beat
Until.
The indulgence of an only child
Cuts and gouges, rips and tears
Storms of acid, rupture in their
skin
heart
soul
to the very core.
They were very sore.
The child asked for a second chance. Ha! Whatever for?
You wish to enter a broken door.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC