Eyes narrow, beady
Heart green, seedy
Unextinguishable fire

-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable.  I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation

I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone

Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.

I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise

I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong

The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences  between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.

Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.

there is a lump not so modestly residing in the back of my throat
forcing me to stay silent because if i speak i'll probably squeak and the tears will start dripping
please, can someone tell me what it is that i'm feeling?

they ask me the colour of my soul and i say
mustard
and then they ask why and i have to think

is it because its bright but coated in a layer
of dust
not grey but not entirely yellow bright?

it's that time of year again and
once again i'm sitting alone under like
seven hundred duvets and
she's in a mood again because
brother's in the ******* hospital bed
the snow just will not appear, and neither will
friends

///
I am the foe, too-
a foolish foe of my muscle's friends
they are well known, the difference between friend and foe

They have sent me in the jail
and after then, for me they have granted a bail
now they are trying to grow my flesh and bone  
they'll eat me day after tomorrow

I am the dark in the heaven
talking too much about the right
that test less, too worthless
as the humanity boring to my friend

Last night they ate a fat cat
who turned to make him as a fat less
he has too many friends,
they have grown as like as my foes, too

They have thought me as a broiler chicken
wish to send me at the right time in the kitchen

I am the dark in the hell
yet I  sing a song of humanity
and ready to make myself to move into the fire, too
I, a foolish foe of my friends, too
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen