When should I write?
When boredom gets sculpted into motivation?
When a distracting thought
Bothers me long enough
To make me turn to it instead,
With ardent concentration -
Thereby perhaps making it
The topic of my next composition?

Should I risk completing that sad poem
I’d been working on for a month now,
When I’m in the best of spirits, today?
Should I try and imagine
What being happy sounds like,
In an unfamiliar milieu of words
For the sake of completing my poem,
Hoping it’ll lift my mood too?

Should I scribble away
The cold downpour of tears with
The harmless, vicarious vengeance of my pen,
The one thing I half-guiltily hold dear
When my anger endlessly battles with helplessness?
[Or are they not worth being written about,
As many tongues would simultaneously utter?]

Must I write in a state of ecstatic frenzy?
       Or could I have to leave that precious thought
                                   Annoyed, hanging in mid-air,
                                            When a trifling rush of new thoughts
                                                  Crashed my way, making me forget,
                              Why I was holding the pen in my hand,
                                               after all.



                                                      Epilogue:
                                               I think I must write now to find out,
                                               Before the ink of my existence dries out.

It was just a normal school day,
And we were going out to play,
When those men armed with guns,
Took us away from the bright sun.

They took us to a camp,
A place lit with only a lamp,
When those men armed with guns,
Took us away from the bright sun.

We sat there like dogs,
In rows like peas in pods,
When those men armed with guns,
Took us away from the bright sun.

So please help us in anyway you can,
Such as posting on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram,
Make our smiles shine out like pearls,
By adding the #BringBackOurGirls

Your body is a language I would like to be fluent in.

Alas, I am two poets,
Trapped inside one mind.
Living separate lives, entwined;
Mirrored souls of each other.

Created out of insecurity,
Places the darkened times lay.
Released but I was never free,
Never meant to see existence.

In confusion, I hurt maidens fair,
Broke their hearts and took their souls.
But I knew who I really could be,
I was a shattered facade of crystal.

Suicide soon beckoned me, so near,
My mind collided and I escaped.
Once again I feel into darkness,
Lost in the depths of imagination.

My story is still to be told, released,
For a phantom still dwells inside.
When least he thought me long gone,
Will be the time for me to return, once more.

I wonder what you would write,
If you had the inclination to dissipate such woes.
What would be on your paper?
What if my persisting persistence and boastful amount of
hyperbolic word arrangements could be yours?
I would love to read your writes and write your wrongs,
Hopefully your wrongs are just writes
And not a totality of havoc carefully spaced between blue lines,
Whilst chaotic linguistics tend to rise from a certain muse
I guess what I'm saying is,
That I am curious to visually participate in a what seems to be
Something near impossible.
Unless you are me and I am you.
Then my job is complete and I can happily say,
Its not half bad.