If you do not feel,
at least once a day,
as if you are living alone
in a small immaculate bubble
where the outside world doesn't matter,
snuggled up with a book,
or curling the grass between your toes
then
you are not doing it right.

I'm starting
to see
through people
who make
their lives
look pretty

I love gloomy days
Because without the sun
To tell us when it's noon,
Dusk or dawn,
The day blends into one
Long continuum
Where any time of the day
Could be any other
And humanity gets a taste
Of the infinite.

When he was younger,
He used to feel overwhelmed
By the endless possibilities
That awaited him,
To the point that it kept him up
At night.

But now
He cannot sleep
Because his life's regrets
Weigh heavily
Upon his thoughts.

Being a writer
Is not a part-time job,
Like being a nurse
Or a teacher:
Where clocking in
And out
Is as simple
As lifting and putting down
A pen.

No,
Writers have words
Flowing though their veins;
Poignant thoughts and emotions
Shape and reshape themselves
Into poems in the writer's mind
Almost by instinct.

But
Do not be fooled:
The writer's world
Is no paradise:
Thoughts tug at our brains
In the middle of the night,
Like a child pulling
At its mother's coat
Beckoning us to the page
Where finally we free the thoughts
That have been held captive.

And finally with sleepy,
Satisfied eyes,
We place the final fullstop
On our latest masterpiece
.

We could learn
A lot from children:
They seem to find
Happiness in almost anything,
Instead of searching
For it endlessly.  

Imagine
How happy
The world would be,
If we were all just
Children for the day.

Just imagine.

I have insomnia
Because when the rest
Of the world is quiet,
I can hear myself think.