1.26 am. I am empty.
I am the dried up ocean;
I am ashes, not stardust.
There is no supernova inside me,
Waiting to combust.
I keep chasing paragraphs
but my words - blown away by the wind.
No amount of time can resurrect them
This pen is running out of ink.
What I seek - will it come
if I think in another language?
Perhaps if I go to sleep
I can write another page.
3.57am. I am (still) empty.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
I believe
That writers are
So brave
Because each time
They start writing
Blotting ink onto
Their paper
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
They rip their heart out
Of their chest
And show the world
What it's made of.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
*Its not the kind of tired that can be unfelt. The kind that leaves after a good night's sleep or some food therapy with your best friend. Its the kind of tired that robs away your words and leaves your tongue dry no matter how much water you drink. Its the kind of tired that seeps through bones, slowly infecting your mind like cancer; so slowly, you don’t even feel it, until one day you just wake up with this sudden thought that you can’t do it anymore. And there is nothing you can do to un-feel it. There is nothing anyone can do to help you un-feel it. And you know what’s worse? Pretending that your spine is not broken, your mind is not collapsing under its own gravity and carry on, every single god **** day.*
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 4:15 AM UTC
I am
solid li
quid and g a s.
Do not define me
because I refuse to exist
in just one state.
I have a
crystalline structure
with unbreakable bonds yet
I want to crash like receding waves
rapidly; through the morn
and be
like o
xy
g
en
unnoticed but longed.
Watch me as I
melt–evapora t e–con
dense.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
I am a poet,darling
My ammunition are pen and papers.
I know how to **** you
with metaphors
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
do you know what it feels like
not to belong?
the mind is aching,
searching for a place
to call home,
where you get tucked in at night
and finally get some sleep
a place
to feel free,
where you can dance in the rain
and laugh in the pale moonlight
but the thing you refuse
to believe
you reject
in the depths of your heart
is the search
will never stop.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
is it not a shame
for the kindest ones around
to feel the most pain?
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
If words can paint canvas on our skins, grow gardens in our hearts, leave star trials behind our thoughts, why are my poems not enough to return you to me?
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC