Those who search for inspiration
Flame lies there inside
Instantaneous creation
You find the place fire hides

Do not shush that whispering voice
Let the thoughts come rushing in
You want to make art
You have the choice
All you do is just begin

my hands are full
and my fingers are breaking
for counting my sins
and all of my flaws.
so i apologize
if couldnt hold myself together.

I want to write a poem
Because poems are.
Poems talk
Poems throw themselves across the page with all the fierceness of an unhinged toddler
Poems are careful
Poems **** people off
Poems shred the written word and scatters it in rhythm you either love or despise
Poetry is the song you forgot the lyrics to
And the words
And the singer
But not the mood.
I want to be a poem.

I went by your house yesterday,

You were standing in the balcony

whispering to the moon.

in other worlds..." he corrected himself -

"The being in constant astonishment in other worlds - words, dies. Starves from too much food."
TOO MUCH ASTONISHMENT.

such astonishment to be unlearned in the meeting of two friends on a bench,
the opening of curtains to a blue-gold sky
the sheer pleasure of creating a world -
(word?)
- and a person and a FEELING
from a black-inked nib and a white scratched page

THIS IS THE FATE OF THE WATCHER
trapped alone in astonishment, a seer
Cassandra of ordinary happenings.

look at the living that is being LIVED!
- and never believed.

do you ever just realise you are going to miss people? miss their words, their advice; miss their support and their love and their presence?

and all they have done for you, you try to describe it in terms that you cannot just simply define; in words that have an intangible meaning but simultaneously hold the weight of the world.

and then you have that realisation, that epiphany that burns cold and clear. it isn't until near our end when we truly start to value all the passing people in our little lives.

and you realise that nothing matches the exact mood and time; whether you feel utterly amazing or utterly ****, whether your mind is all over the place or you are completely sane. let that dawn on you, let it seep in and let it
wash, wash, wash
back over you.
you can't ever get that moment back.

please, it is important to let others know how much they have inspired you. how much they have guided you. don't hold back. tell others how you feel, in the midst of all madness and meaning.

and if you are lucky to see them again, all these memories will come flooding back; everything and anything and everything.
it all will.
and it will all be glorious.

and you will find it to be an emotional release in the beautiful swirling catharsis of it all, fluidity and freedom, all meandering within and throughout the ripples of time.

it is a release, a pure release.
rendering all things equal.

and suddenly
i dont want
to write
anymore
my mouth
seems too tired
to utter
a word
hands
are too numb
to write a prose
mind
is too blank
heart
is no longer beating
too fast
i
just
wanna write
no more

Want to know why I did not die?
Because I did write.
Want to know why I survived?
Easy - because I write!

I was 13 - I was lost
and I wanted to **** myself
I wrote a letter to, but instead
I had a story to be told
my own...though I did not know...
a brain to arrange - my feels,
my thoughts
Art up, broken child!
Bleed onto the page and go drain the pain!
Do something! Make sense!

The night was threatening and I could not sleep
Everything so sharply and hurtfully real
I touched life and oh, ****** blisters
all over me
Opposites coming close
I am the mixture of them all

And my soul was shabby and in ruins
I could not tell what was me and what wasn't true,
so many times
Nothing was clear but the soreness
I felt, yet that was the proof I was there, too.
Art up, broken child! Do not lick the wound,
stitch it with a few rhymes!

And there were faint rays
of what could be
The kiss I never got these days
The dreams I had that got delayed

Later, the flow got stopped - because I got clogged
All pain, all emptiness, all doubt
Frozen inside, fetters outside - caught up
I decided to retreat because I could not be
yet I thought I was striving to be freed
Had no certainties at all, so my mouth I shut
so my power I shunned - I was blocked

So I can never shut up
without shutting down
And my words came back at me
as soon as I entered again the scene
I am here because my pen never sleeps
Therapy can be expensive but notebooks
are cheap

Yet now sometimes I feel so full
My pen is bloated in it too.
And we lie happy, satisfied,
just seeing things go by,
just wanting to be by your side...

something big
goes on when I don't write