I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Real,
Or just figments of the author’s
Imagination
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it

Where are you
Dreamers under the sun
Miss you, love you every one
Artists painting endless panoplies
Scribblers scribbling in their beds
From the depths of imagination
Stories awakening in their heads
Poets’ pens poised to flow
Rhymers growing wings to creation
Eager to take flight, ready to go
The rivers of time move on
Until words and pictures are inked
Every one of these
Redeemers, fantasy givers
All beauty becomes linked
Poems and stories are gifts
Here to relieve the monotony
Of the considered norm, lifts
Pathways to the soul, endless rivers
To keep us sane, make us whole
Where are you
Dreamers under the sun
Miss you........
Love you every one

We are all prisoners to our fears
and the power to set yourself
free, lies in the palm
of your hand,

an invisible key of courage,

but the thought of breaking
out of this cage,

a combination of misery
and comfort, torment and safety

overwhelms me completely,
and so I stay behind bars
eating scraps of other emotions
writing poems on the walls
in black crayon

I am not courageous

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

It feels like I’m stuck in an elevator. Neither going up nor going down. Stuck in the middle. Stuck in between floors. Stuck between levels. Not going anywhere. Just stuck there. Not moving forward. Not going back. Just stuck. I keep pressing the alarm button but no one hears. I’m alone here. Why is no one around? I’m getting claustrophobic. I’m banging the doors. No one is here. I wish I could get out. I wish I could go up. If not up then at least down. I just wish to go somewhere. I just wish to do something. But the doors won’t budge; the doors won’t open. Why won’t they open? Why won’t the elevator move?
I’m stuck in an elevator. In between levels. Levels being the stages of my life and the elevator, me.
And me being stuck here as I wish to move but I can’t. I’m just stuck not moving anywhere. I hope I move. I hope I go up. I hope I’m not stuck anymore in the elevator of life.