midnight and i'm still here
tapping out words in the hope
that i'll write something worthy
of reading.

the instructions aren't clear:
am i supposed to sleep
or work on word therapy
and...feelings?

i don't care now
just turn on tiktok
and i'll slip into my beloved
mind coma

Trigger warningVery disturbing
Dear sir, I write to you at a time when
Bloodshed has become a trending hashtag.
When genocide is another word for good morning.
When a mosquito bite has resulted in a bird flu
and the bird owner has been quarantined.
"The bird should be discarded" you decree.
On its wings it conveyed passion, ideas and businesses.
A confidant, a pillar it has become.
A pillar of support no government parastatal offered.
I write that you reconsider for from my little knowledge, no one can cage a bird.
It is meant for the skies so let it fly.
Yours faithfully, a very lazy youth.


@poeticifi

It's time to write,
As in right now.
So write.
Right this second.
Do it.
Please.
Just write.
It doesn't have to be right - just write!
And now it's gone.
I'll write next time... right?

Every body is always trying to understand
Even to force
All of these binary oppositions
On everything and everyone
But here I am
An odd one out
I am everything and nothing
I am a saint
And I am a sinner
I am happy
And I am sad
I am male
And I am female
I am a child
And I am an adult
I am dead
And I am alive
I am everything
And I am nothing.

Intensity is the underdog story
Wild soil to a champion
Flame out, and maybe
Fell to the drink

Consistency is two years without
So much as a batted eye or a blink
Ten steps ahead, maybe half an inch per week
Books with battered spines stretched across coffee-stained sheets

Intensity is ***, or
A free trial for a week
Gold plated words
Tin can actions underneath

Consistency is the love, and
Knowing I know I will never know enough
Unconscious heartbeat
The very breath that fills my lungs

I see your reflection in the glass
***** mirrors distorting visions of my past
Lonely, naked in the rain
The wind baby, always whispering your pain

Corrosive thoughts slowly poisoning my brain
I was broken long ago
A silent sickness
Steadily driving me insane

My conscious mind refrains
From falling out or giving in
I will go without
On the strength of that which lies within

I can't write a word
Or even pickup a pen
I wish I had hands

Books are fuel to the imagination.

Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.

I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.

Looking down,
I see the world in the palm of my hand.

Looking up,
I see my face amongst the clouds.

On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.

And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.