My words became
knives.
A paragraph,
a sword.
And when I
made
my first speech,
the room
                was
                        hit
                             with
                                            a
                                                    grenade.

I too came to a fork in the path
And also took the less trodden lane,
But one misstep put my arm in a cast
A low branch badly hurt my brain.

I  didn't miss the poison sumac site
Or the nest of swarming bees,
But it turned out to be a splendid day,
When I met my wife in the pharmacy.

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