He doesn't burn photographs He doesn't join therapy sessions He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes Nor he drown himself into alcohol He scratches his wounds daily And never let them heal He doesn't try to get rid of the pain Instead he let it grow on him He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears He feeds it with the manure of old memories He takes it to sleep with him And nurtures it in himself Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain Until his fragile heart can bear no more And his soul starts overflowing with emotions That's when he dip his pen into this pain And empty his heart on a piece of paper He bares his soul for us to feel He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
What other kind of creature could divide Each different thing into its different sides With chaos versus order, dark and light The stark duality of wrong and right We even split the very world in two With human versus human, we and you But still no matter how much we divide Each thing has infinitely many sides
I met a friend today His name was Death He smiled big with pure white teeth And minty fresh breath I asked him what he did for a living Staring blankly at me, batting his eyelashes He did the opposite of giving What did that mean? But the closer I got to Death The better I understood his scheme In his sharp black suit he won me over I felt an irresistible draw Like to a diamond in the rough, or a four leaf clover He convinced me of the beauty in the night That when the moon was hidden from view There was nothing better than the lack of light He led me from my lust for life Sang to me in my sleep Whispered sweet nothings and handed me the knife I tried to pull away from my newly found friend But his choke hold was so tight On him I started to depend The world could see me deteriorate into nothing He held me harder and closer With shortness of breath I stood huffing and puffing Enclosed in the lackluster of our friendship I became numb The emotions drifted with my vitality I tried to retrieve them but could only attain 1/5th of my former sum The more time you spend with a person The more you become like them I suppose I couldn't see the situation worsen Collar around my neck he leashed me like a dog I cared so deeply for him My haze filled mind ignored the dense fog I came to terms with my life long trap Death circled like a satellite around my position No matter where I went he found my place on the map Eventually I succame to this fate Despite his control Death, I could not hate I loved him too dearly to notice the signs I couldn't think clearly His presence was odious and it wasn't benign
I love him I tell myself I know that We will be together forever I don’t believe that We could be separated My thoughts tell me that He’s the love of my life Sometimes my heart lies and says I could live an eternity Without him Like my friends say “We’re perfect for each other” And you can’t tell me He’s not the one.
Brick By Brick A house is built Hour By Hour The house becomes a home Day By Day The home turns into memories Year By Year The memories turn into people Century By Century The people turn into stories Story By Story Stories turn into legends Legend After Legend History is changed Piece By Piece Lives are changed Person By Person Love is spread One Love After Another Bricks are purchased That build houses That turn into homes That create memories That turn into people That turn into stories That turn into legends That change history And it all started with Just. One. Brick.
Sometimes it's tough when you are just laying bricks to see the end picture, but it makes a difference in the end! It can be so easy at times to feel like we aren't doing enough to help others or to grow ourselves, but one ripple affects the entire pond.
Get me to be a soul liberated from every attachment it could be.
I want to want nothing from anywhere not want to get tempted by things unnecessary get myself bound to what will be my downfall
The soul needs nothing it is to be free but my own flaws have made it not so that it could go as it pleases
What is that one really needs with no one else be depleted all the seed, sign of lives but with greed everything dies
Devoid of true knowledge what is I seek I see myself so very weak my vision so blinded my eyes itself closes that I cannot see
the lies will bite the anger will burn my own journey with karma it will come back on me I wait as I expect them coming to me
My sins who will wash for me?
my thoughts why they never sided me they followed the down path got me to fuss on things over all the nothings never mattered to me
the body detoriates every day, every second passes
My mind forget what it remembers I speak no tales, but riddles what sense I try to formulate
This time who will be the one to get it to decode the mysteries the real truths which could liberate but to think deeper what really is the answer lies very deep within much closer than who you are actually really.
Anything can look like a poem and sound philosophical simply by moving the words on different lines.
Am I doing it right? Is this really talent? Art? Effort?
I think I am trying. Really, I am I go back and change the order and I break lines where it sounds right But it does not take me long. Not at all.
I try to be intentional and call it natural rhythm. Instinct and style taking over I alternate between agonizing every detail like When to Capitalize and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.
How is writing supposed to feel? Should I labor? or should it flow? Or do I get to decide?
I think the things I talk of mean something at least.
But am I just pretentious?
fooling myself into thinking that using common poetry formats somehow makes my work worthwhile?
A friend asked me how to be a writer. I wanted to say, lock yourself in a room, scream until you have a poem and no voice. Open your veins and bleed until you know that your bones are pure words and sorrow. Act as if you slit your own throat and all you can bleed are your own regrets and all of the darkness you boxed up for inspiration. Write your mom a letter, tell her you're leaving and you won't be back for awhile Because being a writer is traveling through all seven layers of Hell and denying anything is wrong. Forget loving yourself when all you have is a pen and paper fused to your wrist and Jesus is tapping at your skull saying turn back now. Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning It's just your soul clawing at the front door trying to get in. Learn how to be alone. Learn how to lose everything you have in order to feel release, learn how to only feel deceased from now on. A friend asked me how to be a writer. All I said was don't