we write because we are told
we write because we are cold

so why write poetry?

is it to obey
is it to simply misbehave
is it due today
is it more than what we say

if not
why do you write poetry?

because I can
&
because I am

we are made to feel
we are made to speak
some people are quiet
and others are bleak

words are expressive and alive
but some words are best left to die

There once lived a boy young of age,
Candy he loved so much his teeth had caves.
Not one or two could satisfy his urge,
Tonnes could go down his tiny throat.

This one time to the market he went,
His mother holding him firm in the grasp of her hand.
Seeing him sad she saw him standing then,
"Go get some candy" she said putting two pennies in his arm band.

Off he ran to in search of candy prime,
His eyes moving vigorously from left to right in search of the candy store.
Then he saw it, that glorious gleaming colourful shop,
His one and final destination, his stop.

It was small yet filled with people from all over the city,
Every one, young and old wanted a piece of candy.
The little kid pushed and pulled with all his might,
A piece of candy he craved like the elders craved shandy.

The din and crowd couldn't lower his spirit,
His eyes set on this sugary treat, his favourite.
But till the time he could get to the counter,
The last treat the man in front bought for his little daughter.

The kid got all teary eyed and walked out of the store,
Standing outside he watched all the other kids happily walk out of the door,
Drops started falling to the ground,
The girl from inside watched him all along as he cried and frowned.

The little kid's world had fallen apart for a minute,
Till this cute brown eyed girl decided to do something about it,
She went up to him and asked him if he wanted some?
All she wanted was for him not to be so sore.

The teary eyed kid looked up with a smile,
He nodded in cheer as he wiped his tears.
A huge bit of candy he took as he reached for his arm band.
Searching for the two pennies to repay the little girl.

To his dismay only to realize,
The money had fallen down somewhere in the struggle.
Gulping down saliva he dared to let her know the truth,
"I have no money to give you", he said.

"Its ok", said she with a beaming smile,
The boy nevertheless decided to give her his favourite arm band.
That day those little kids exchanged more than just candy and a piece of cloth,
They exchanged smiles, kindness and pieces of their heart.

The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen

All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial

A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?

The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human

The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries

The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.

monsters under my bed
monsters in my mind
masters in my head
whispering to me blind

voices that are gone
come back to remind

my heart begs to mourn
afraid of what my eyes will find

the silence begins to roam
and i'm back in rome
on a colossal tide

travelling back and forth
between love and loath

i'd rather have them both
open my scars fresh and wide

in a room so silent
where sound travels
faster than light

here darkness resides
in lust and fright

wandering all night
with stars to hide

photos to like
memories have lied

to all those who have died

since past

when it all began
with plight

of all those who have cried
but died

yet, i want to be there still
wide open
when a lonely heart
begins to beat

begging to be free
but in a delusion
that cold is just
absence of heat

give me a pill to be enlightened
and i'll set fire to every thing

for the chaos is
just a form of silence
some thing's aren't
meant to breed

so, have you been
in a thought so violent
that everything around
starts to bleed

filling the emptiness
with opulence
a forest made up
of lonely seeds

ready to feed, steady and asleep
in this silence
you can taste the essence
of the universe rearing to be free
telling tales
of men and monsters

and of everything that came to be