an endless dilemma
an unsung drama
there's no resolution
to the struggles

a natural cycle
spawning eternally
once suffered enough
from the nth time

like an echo on repeat
trapped in a tunnel
banging against walls
no way out

but the soul seeks isolation
even from itself
night and day
it's always been a disarray

and then it got what it wanted
a haunting clamor
complained for never finding
peace in solitude

distractions seem to be useless
medications: no effect
like a virus going stronger
every time you tried to fight it

an endless dilemma
slowly conquering
every bit of you
a silent invasion

And what do I serve with tea?

Of a cake layered with words - a slice
A croissant with stirring smilies
A quiche with quaint archaic spice -
Fresh from a poet's repository.

In the clink and chime of quills and pots
And spoons that stir the brewing tea
Dark or creamed, winter or spring
Here's to a cup of poetry.

You lounge on my pillow
weaving your dreams into my ear,
and whenever I feel the wind blow
it's your name I always hear.
This final boss I just can't fight
even when on the easy mode,
up up, down down, left right, left right,
B A, B A, select and start; that is the contra code.

I won't compare your eyes
to the ocean or the skies,
but instead to my own veins.
I've always hated goodbyes,
but "see you soon" is always lies,
but I always return with the rains.

You lay in state upon my bed
stretching out into my dreams,
we're held together by a single thread
that's been stretching at the seams.
If you be my ears then I'll be your sight,
we can equally share this heavy load,
up up, down down, left right, left right,
B A, B A, select and start; that is the contra code.

I won't compare your eyes
to the seas or a sunrise,
but instead to my own veins.
I've always hated goodbyes,
but was good with cutting ties,
yet the cut strand still remains.

I'm searching for an extra heart
to gain myself some life,
'cause I gave up both long ago.
I want to reset but instead I start,
I want a sword but I have a knife,
I want to be high but I am low.

You fight to stay up till dawn
on my shoulder and in my head,
and while I shrug off each yawn
you exaggerate them instead.
In the darkness I'll be your light,
I'll guide you down each path and road,
up up, down down, left right, left right,
B A, B A, select and start; that is the contra code.

You’re not a poet because you know those ‘fancy’ words
You’re a poet because every word you write comes straight from your heart

You’re not a poet because people admire your work
You’re a poet because you write for your own contentment and not for people's consent

You’re not a poet because you feel alone
You’re a poet because pen and paper are your biggest companions

You’re not a poet because you understand emotions better
You’re a poet because you let them flow freely

You are not a poet because you’ve failed in love
You’re a poet because you’ve been in love deeper than anyone else

You’re not a poet because you are strong
You’re a poet because you don’t hide your weaknesses

You’re not a poet because you can heal hearts
You’re a poet because you know what it means to be broken

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

we all  narrate
our own destinies
smoothing the edges of
dubious memory
so we become hero
or victim, as we see fit

we paint our words with
colour and passion
and make some areas
grey or black
shading the story,
so that our heart remains clean

it is only in the small print
foot notes, that we write
codiciles and retractions
that we give a nod to time

the nebulous truth
obfuscated  by time
and the blurred re-telling
becomes the urban legends
of our minds....

our very own fairy  tales
and once upon a times
seen through the
kaliedescope of fathertime