The greatest grief for a writer is to lose the connection with the pen and the paper.

A girl of like eleven,
Seemed so fragile for the nature's cycle.
She wasn't yet as tall as she wanted to be,
Things like getting bigger ***** and better *****,
Took her to heaven.
And made her happy...

A girl of like eleven,
Seemed so young for the nature's cycle,
She wasn't yet told about any ****** cycle related thing,
Good touch and bad touch, for her had been everything..
And about anything more she knew nothing...


She kept weeping and repeating,
" I didn't get a wound, but its bleeding "
When truth infront of her did lay,
She wondered about the number of days it would stay!
And repeated the thing again,
" You serious, every month the same pain? "


Entire family cherished, and took care of the little princess with ' eggs'
And the girl still did lay confused, with if kids are born from the tummy,
What has it got to do with the hole in  legs?

I find
Your lack of peace
Disturbing.

Do you still love me?
Do you still care?
Do you miss me too
Like how much I miss you?

What's on your mind baby?
Do you want me no more?
Have you already forgotten
How we made this love?

I said I miss you so much
You replied "ditto"
What's on your mind
When you hesitated twice in typing your response?

Please don't let me get tired
If you don't love me anymore
Just say it
Right through my face.

I'd better be hurt by the truth
Than be happy with lies.
I don't want to guess
I need answers.

I need the truth
Please don't deprive me of that
I love you
With all my heart.

I want to cry now
I'm already crying inside
But I'm telling myself
I need to be brave.

What do I lack?
Is love really not enough?
Please help me God
Don't want to ***** my life.

I don't know how to explain this feeling
If you can even call it that
It's more like how to describe someone devoid of feeling
I lack the capacity to demonstrate emotion

But then does that mean that when I cry it is just for show?
Or is it that my body reacts externally but not internally?

I guess it's difficult to explain something you've never had.

To trust,
Let people in,
Relationships.
That's what he said.
That psycologist with
Grey hair
Thinning,
Just like my relationships.
Lonely, hating, loathing myself,
Pain being controlled by addictions,
Shame,
My same shame increases the circles,
Addictions,
Running circles in my head--
Wanting to draw circles with a knife.
STOP THINKING.
My circles of friends growing smaller,
Isolate as the weather becomes cold,
My heart, iced, caged,
No trust, no love.
No one could love me anyway.
Right?
Wrong way thinking through this thick head
Makes it worse.
Wearing through my thin soul,
This pain, pleasure?
No. Run run away from this,
Soles of my shoes thining,
Just like the grey hair--
The psychologist's head.
Trust, love, relationships.
No shame in mistakes.
Let people in?

I always thought I never needed that.

I know the words I'm searching for are there,
lying beneath the surface of my conscience grasp,
and I know if I try hard enough I can reach them,
pull them from their depths
and use them to create something meaningful
but what if they're not meaningful?
What if I lost it, the talent to string
many times used words together
to make something new altogether?
I could cry with the lack of effort
I put into my poetry now-a-days,
but I'm learning to fear so many things I never use to,
and its hampering my work on a large degree.
How can I claim this is what I do,
who I AM,
when I don't cant feel confident
in my skills as a writer anymore?
Who am I if not a writer?
I'm nothing extraordinary; writing made me feel free
and hopeful and extraordinary,
but I'm not writing anymore,
at the least nothing that makes me feel all those things.

I am sandpaper
longing frictions heat.

To grow both fat and
weary, sloughing
away your skin.

See what is strength
suckered and sickly
is set
to diminish.

But paper handholds,
why so dusty?

You aim for ignorance,
blooded hands to tease
simply tremor.

Yes, each whisper
charms so sweetly,

sweetly rough
against your grain.