The heart that beats

pumps the fluid I shed,

inking these sheets

with words in blood red.


I cannot ****

what's already dead,

I've got no will

so I won't find a way ahead.


Lost in my mind

these thoughts I thread,

while living in rewind

I curse the present instead.


Lonely like the 52Hz whale

I stay unheard & unsaid,

in this self-created jail

hallucinating the reality I dread.


I wish that I could resurrect,

like a butterfly from its skin shred,

all my broken parts could I collect

and piece them into poetry unread.

Writers are illusionists,
For they create imagery;
Imprisoned in their minds,
While setting the whole world free.

Writers are heros,
For they have superpowers;
Walking for miles before they sleep,
Only to shine like insomniac stars.

Writers are clowns,
For they can make you laugh;
Humouring you through their ironies,
Unveiling only their happy half.

Writers are divine,
For they can give life;
To the sun & the sea & the shore,
Calming and soothing all your strife!

Writers are deranged,
For they find poetry in all shapes;
From needles to knives,
They talk to these inani'mates'

Writers are intense,
For they feel too much;
Like mimosa of the plant kingdom,
Writing away about the slightest of touch.

Writers are deceptive,
For they are the best liars,
Exaggerating these simple sentences,
Helping you escape your monotonous quagmires.

Writers are humble-beings,
For they always are connected to their roots;
Building wonders from mere words,
To which the whole world ends up paying tributes!