You look me dead in the eye as you my shatter ego
Confidence fractures, shards fall to the beaten ground
Forgotten pieces and parts of me soak into the floorboards like water on thirsty sand
You walk callously over the memory of my existence
Never giving a second thought to the barren wasteland you leave behind

As the shadow of my once-fragile ego lay prostrate and unnoticed
A subtle breeze passes through, carrying a familiar fragrance
That lifts expectations and replaces sadness with newness
A scent so seductive it draws me to the surface

Languished scraps coalesce into new form
Where I was once forgotten, I now am found
Sometimes brokenness is needed for growth

I strain to chase my own inspiration
But ev’ry day there’s only artifacts
From my past eras, this lonely creation
Takes every fleeting feeling like a fact.

I seek, I seek, but rarely do I find
The abstract answer I was looking for;
You’d think you can’t get lost inside your mind
But sometimes you don’t own the parts you store.

It truly is a pit without a bottom
To stare the depths that lie within your heart
Because we underestimate the *****’s
Ability to turn pain into art.

Although it may appear to be a void
A writer’s well of words can’t be destroyed.

Nothing implies,
I write to feel alive.

Every day,
I walk by,
Imagination flies.

In the twinkling of an eye,
Seize it,
and will be mine.

What keeps the dark away?
And keeps the wick alight?
Let's create a poem a day
It is not that difficult to write

Doesn't need to be a masterpiece
Just need some time and consistency
It doesn't even need to rhyme
Just meanings upon meanings, and words within words

Use puns, irony, simile, or hyperbole
Tools to use at your disposal are many

Free form or haiku,
Just write, time and time again
Embrace consistency

Write without hesitation, but be sure to re-read
For mistakes can be made, and improvements can be done
Not chasing for perfection, just a product pleasing to the eye
May it contribute to the reader, more than it did to the writer

Now come on, follow that blinking cursor and type
Grab your respective writing utensils and weave the words
These poems ain't writing themselves
And the day is not done

I have seen world's I haven't visited.
Experienced hardships I wasn't meant for.
I have loved families that weren't mine I have fought battles conquered foes even when I had no idea on how to wield a sword.
I have felt the joy and laughter in children.
I have felt the struggles of emperors' and princes' yet I wasn't royalty.
I have taken charge of armies as a general I even played the damsel in distress might I say.
I have forged words like how a blacksmith does to metal but for me as a wordsmith.

~This is the diary of a writer✍

My friend asks
me where I get
the fodder for
writing my poems.
I tell him, life.
He says that's too
simple.
He isn't satisfied.
I tell him that
sometimes, I sit at
my desk and open
the window above the
litterbox, and look
outside at the
orange daylilies and
wait.

He says he writes
from a small place above
his left ear.
It tickles at times, but
often it's painful.
I nod and make a
note to call my
doctor about the
headaches I've been having.

He reads his posey at
the coffee shops while
drinking espresso and
chatting with the other
young poets in sweaters.
I tell him that I used
to live under a bridge,
I read my poems to the
savage river and the
Mallard ducks, and the
drunk friends that
wandered in for a drink of
***** or a beer.
He says the little place above
his left ear is beginning to
hurt.

I walk him to the door and
tell him goodbye.
He asks if I will come
to the coffee shop to
hear him read his poetry.
"Sure", I say, smiling blankly.
After closing the door,
I sit and smile at the view from
my window.
I can smell the freshly cut
grass, and hear the
grinding whine of the
lawnmower.
A woman across  
the street is lying in
the sun.
She's wearing a turquoise
bikini and big sunglasses.
Just then, a slight hint
of coconut wafts into my room.
I get hard and pick up the pen.

I've been working on this drawing
I guess it's more of a rough draft
But that's what this character should look like
I think
It's an early look, of course
You know, concept art
But look
This is a character I'm getting to know
And I think this is them
Maybe this could be them
What do you think?
You like it?
No, I know it's not finished
But what do you think?
Yeah, I know
I just thought it was cool
And I thought, you know
Maybe you'd like it
It's cool
Like I said
It's not finished
You'll love it when I'm really done
No, you'll love it for sure

Few are the times Love knocked at my door,
     but they've all escaped my memory;
No enchanting poems stirred in my core --
No grand tributes to Love's mystery

But when despair extinguishes hope's flame,
     what salient words drip from my pen;
It's then that my heart, wounded and lame,
     unveils its poetic acumen

Is this why misery commands free rein ---
     just to appease Fate's poetic lust?
The tyranny of anguish and pain
     gives hesitant verse that final ******

Try to visualize agony pent
     in the depths of a desolate heart;
Now sketch the face of that vile torment . . .
Soon the pain becomes a work of art

Too often deceitful hearts will lure
     trusting hearts, blinding them with false love;
Great is the anguish they must endure . . .
     but it's the poems that I'm thinking of!

Passion-filled verses mix and combine
     like the paints in a grand masterpiece
     when the shattered heart tries to confine
     rage and bitterness seeking release
    
And yet, Love that survives Fate's brutal shove ---
The fortress that refuses to fall ---
Those words that proclaim undying love
     become the grandest poems of all!

Even my coffee needs a pep talk,

For I feel no relief when the
caffeine kicks in.

I know the tools
Time heals;
Not all wounds
Are bad memories to ****.

Yet I go to war defeated
Escape in the world of dreams,
Only to wake up even more
drained.

Time heals, they say, but how
much time — when it seems
infinite.

Switched off the router today,
Waited a few seconds
Maybe my energy will start
blinking
again.

Not yet,
Dear friend.

Be patient,
The sun has not set.

My coffee just kicked in, and I can
still write a poem.

In the cosmic dance of swirling lights,
Where stars are born and darkness fights,
The universe whispers secrets old,
In silver threads and dust of gold.

Galaxies twirl in elegant grace,
Each a part of the endless space,
Planets orbit in silent tunes,
Around their suns, like drifting balloons.

Mysteries hide in the blackest night,
Beyond the reach of human sight,
Yet we gaze up with hopeful eyes,
Dreaming of truths beyond the skies.

Infinite worlds, both big and small,
The universe holds them, one and all,
A canvas vast for us to explore,
Its beauty, a siren call to implore.

So let us journey through the stars,
Past the confines of our earthly bars,
For in the universe, we find our place,
A tiny speck, in its grand embrace.