Bukowski wrote
about the condition.
John Green said
"pain
demands to be felt."

I wonder what it takes
for pain to consume us?
Entirely but slowly;
cell by cell, vein
by vein, part
by part.

Lost
in a sea of
the condition.

Permanent,
chronic;
a disease
terribly
felt.

“Nobody lives their
lives thinking ‘I’m
going to die.’” said
the professor.

One second of
complete silence,
stood between me
and the professor’s
next sentence-
I wanted to ask ‘why?’

“It just does not
work that way,”
she said.

What if it does with
some?

Actually, no-
I let you go.

today I read a lot of
poems.

and fell
into a deep, deep hole
of doubt.

and wandered there
for a while.

then it hit me-
I cannot help the urge;
the writer inside me
is dying to break out.

but I denied the undeniable
fact again, and again
and again.

then my right hand rose
up and held the pencil,
and started writing:
“I write, I write, I write,
I write, I write, I write…”

but it was not enough,
the written words came
to life; I started
mumbling,
murmuring,
muttering – listening to myself,
hearing my mouth utter the words
I deny because I am scared, terrified! –
then I screamed the written words.

how silent were they, as silent
as pencil can be. I heard them
being written at first, but
screamed them to believe.

that was almost enough;
I cried.
and so I believed that
I write,
*I write.

If you are a lover of words,
you’d understand the
beautiful curse      that befell us,
those who strive and endeavor
with a passion planted inside us
that flourishes and thrives.
Like Athena and her web,
our webs are made of
hundreds of words, woven with
our pencils like needles,
and so we get better at
sewing our works.

A girl
once loved words
wholeheartedly,
but occasionally tried
to let love go
before sewing poems
became her favorite thing
and nothing more.