In the flood of moonlight filtering in through the glass windows
Masked by the velvety drapes,
She watched her tug deftly at the strings of a harp
Striking chords woven to tell a tale
Of days that once were
Days  they both had shared
Mapped in their minds like the back of their hands
Days spent flying on the swing in the yard
Legs extended to touch the creamy swirl of clouds
Splashing through puddles on a rainy day
Cold drops kissing the skin
******* the yellowing  page of a book
Nestled in the maze of bookshelves
In a room kept cool to battle the summer heat
Lying underneath the shadows of the stars
Crafting stories culminating in illusions of exaggerations
That gave fuel to the never-ending war rooted deep in their hearts
Between fantasy and reality.

To be honest, there's nothing I love more than being a writer
They say, to be one, there's nothing you really need to do
Except put the thoughts and words you wish to relay
In smooth ink that flows over the rugged, pale paper
That's all it takes, they say
It makes a bitter laugh escape from my chest
'Oh really? ' I think nastily
They have no idea.
But never mind, for truly, I love being a writer.
There's this bitter feeling that curls in my gut, though
That seems to wrap  itself around my neck, stifling me
Whenever I look down at the scribbled words, words I wrote
And hear the disembodied, treacherous whisper hiss in my ear
'That's not good enough. '
It seems to cut through the elation and wonder
I feel reading another's work
That has left me astounded, amazed
It whispers this time
'You can never dream to write like that. '
I try to force the thoughts away, repeat to myself
'You're doing this for yourself'
After all, there's nothing I love more than being a writer.
But when I'm sitting glaring at my pen
Looking at an empty page that seems to stare me down
The mocking drawl comes again
'You didn't think you'd actually suceed, did you? '

They were taught to run through the swirling iridescence ,
Cutting through the cool mist on a rainy day,
Inhaling the scent of petrichor ,
Peals of laughter escaping from their chest
Some clasped another's hand
They chased each other, faces red with joy
Till their spotless shoes were caked with mud
At times, they would hear faint calls
Beckoning them back
Yet they only ran faster
As their pace increased
The colours blurred around them
The euphoria they harboured turned cold
Causing them to halt, filled with dread
But the last wisps of the colours were fading
The warmth was gone from their hands
And when each looked around
There was no one there.

The eyelids grow heavy
As  the faint light begins to fade away
And the mind is encompassed in the comforting tendrils of sleep ;
No longer bearing the pain of wakefulness,
Focusing merely on falling asleep.

Wandering in the midst of dreams
That are far off from reality,
Or trapped in the clutches of a nightmare
Too vivid to be forgotten,
One is tucked in the embrace of slumber
For a long time;
Unable to open the eyes
And float away from the cruel labyrinth
Of endless thought.

There are some who fear
The idea of falling asleep,
While there are others who would rather
The sleep be eternal ;
Reality never returning,
As everything that was and would have been
Fades into the abyss of nothing.

The pain will consume us
It will never be so that
We will achieve greatness
We should never forget that
The world deals in lies
We must stop believing that
Everything we do is enough
Words are not enough
We must stop desperately repeating to ourselves that
We will emerge victorious

Perhaps if the winds were calmer
She would cross the seas
Maybe if her courage was unwavering
She would fight till the end
Perhaps if things were easier
She would  succeed
At whatever she did
But the waves of the sea are magnificent  and roaring
Rocking against the ship with the strength
Of a thousand armies.
Things are hardly easy
They get harder as time ticks away
She can't keep up
So she weeps
Succumbing to oblivion