i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.

'writing's like mass -
God gets mad if you don't show up.'

- earnest hemingway

she was a good wife:
beautiful, honest, kind, soft -
just like her silence.

if i couldn’t - feel - for a day,
i wonder -
how i’d feel about it the next day;
to not have a memory i can name;
to come out the other side,
to realize -
the story’s still the same.

what would i even call such a day?
i guess - it’d still be a regular day...
for others to see me -
like, they’ve always seen me
under the sun.
just for a day,
put my soul out of the equation.    

i wonder where i’d even start,
with my mind, and my tongue -
both poles apart.
no self-esteem to feed,
nor the regrets -
to fight about.
****!
what would i even write about...?

a quote of wisdom
makes it to school bulletin;
janitor reads it.

dull and lustless,
i walk the streets -
looking at the trees -
the sweet shops
the library
the branded cabs
the grass fields  
the trickling pipes  
the street performers
the brown leaves
the eagle’s flight
the day
the ‘real’ men
the ‘real’ women
the idea of them
the average joes  
the instagram ******  
the mindless jocks
the humbler saints
the rich folks
the poor lepers
the clay pots
the rain
my life;  
all devoid of charm.

what’s left to do,
but seek love?

come every morning,
i open my eyes slowly,
like i was trained to.