The ability to write poetry is the ability to understand life
To know it's not always about being the best
That it's not always about who can do what
Poetry is emotion
It is the silent words that lurk in our minds
It is our unsaid weaknesses exploited to their full potential
Which then makes it our strengths
It is the bridge that connects us to the mortal world
It is the proof that we are human
That we can cry
That we can laugh
That we can have remorse...
To us poet it is so much then just words on a piece of paper
It is our heart and our pride
As poets we all have our reasons why we write
Because we all come from our different backgrounds
Some of us have lost sight of the light
Other bath in it
There are even some who sit upon the border because they can't make up their mind
But as poets we all have one thing in common
We write because we are not immortal
We write because poetry is our life
We write because  poetry is our hope
And if we didn't have it we'd all be in a different place
Most likely a place beyond darkness
Even if the reason we write is joy
What's the point of being happy if everyone else is not
So we write to share
That's what it means to be a poet

Over the past year,
I lost some of my hope for humanity
And my love for the world.

I tired to stop caring.
But I couldn't nor would I
Yet I could for a small while

I felt I was heading towards insanity.
Just another brick in the wall. Another tile on the floor.

All around me, zombies i saw. So scared.. so ******* scared of the future forever more.

...

But I feel alive again for the first time in months.

The darkness of the world while your spirituality blooms is as uncomfortable as large summer moths by your bed side.

Isn't it?
The Unpredictability of life,
The spontaneous nature of people,
The will to do more,
So much to be grateful for.
So much to look forward to.
So much to love.

It's like a stab in the heart
it's like rain on a new budding flower
it's like a hurricane on a summer day
it's like a tornado over lunch on Sunday

It's like thorns on a rose
it's like a paper cut on your finger
it's like a burn on your body
it's like a "NO" to an excited "please"

It's bound to happen,
you can evade such days
that hurricane will bring sunshine
that stab will heal into a beautiful scar
that budding flower will bloom more gorgeous than any
it
just
needs
a proper
dose
of
Patience..

Hang in there
it's a virtue
they say
let it
be
one of
yours

I lost the quintessence
of my rainbow beaded being
along with
the calligraphic indian feather pen.

The blood from my arteries
are replaced with black ink on paper.
The ingenuity of it all.
How much I despise it
the unoriginality ?

Not feeling me in my own words.

Living on this planet
Is causing growing animosity
For I do not fear death
It's more like a curiosity
Transcending this dimension
As my energy is released
Ending this ostracism
And anguish will be ceased
I do not wish to die, you see
But thoughts linger in my head
What's the point of being here
When all I feel is dread?

Uninspired, even, flat, numb.
Thoughts jumbled, word-hole silent.
Pressure building up behind my eyes,
Screaming only makes me hoarse.
One-word answers to important questions,
Frustration on my wife’s face.
How much can she take?
How much more have I got in me?
How much more can I take?
Will she give up on me, on us?
Will she caress me for the thousandth time?
Tell me it will be alright?
Will she take them and leave me to wallow?
Stay and help or put the boot in?
Leave me nothing but my frightened mind.
Or stay and love me, just love me.
This fragile shell I occupy won’t last much longer.
It’s worn out in thought and deed.
Even I don’t see the value.
I push her away again,
Just hoping she pushes back.