her loneliness surpassed the vast empty field
and on her journey, the truth began to reveal
no lavender, no roses, nothing lovely of the sort
she would be lonely, forevermore
she wished to cry and drown the lands
and so the gods compromised with her demands
they had left her papers and pens
in which she could draw and write, again and again
if only the flower in which she dreamed of, in which she drew
could blossom as beautifully as real ones do
and amongst her stories and the movement of the pen
she wished she could write a story and paint a scene
of which she had a happy end

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 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’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 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






              ©words of a withering soul

You use me to let your frustrations out.
You use me to let your authority known.
You use me to fight battles you know you may lose.
I'm the pen, the greatest weapon you own.

success defined by a digit
all or nothing, which is it
no longer feel worth
granted i never did

chopped down with every number
burned and bruised by the red pen
but who's pen is really causing me this pain?
i'd rather not admit it
it's just success defined by a digit

I should stop this fruitless job
‎of keeping obsolete little things
‎that never did
‎anything good for me.
‎Maybe i should start
‎by unfolding old unsent letters
‎bare from the enthusiasm i used to
‎envelope them in.
‎Then, i'll throw away pretty glass bottles,
emptied by their contents
‎of sweet perfumes and wild dreams.
‎Pick up plastic beads ,
‎loose from the strings tied
by friendships
‎i used to wrap around my wrists.
‎I should discard useless trinkets,
‎cute nothings and dead mementos.
‎Declutter and make room-
‎for other things ,
‎like self-appreciation,
‎growth,love
  and
‎maybe a pen
‎ or two.

I've lost the will to penned
the undetach cord
between real and fantasy
where I laze and daze
the uncomfortable feeling
until I become the ultimate leech
who ***** people
dry.