If a writer falls in love with you
Your pockets will be poor
Should you choose to love too.
If a writer falls in love with you
You'll never get straight answers
To questions that matter.
If a writer falls in love with you
Your tears will be ink
And their ink will be tears,
But you will remember everything.
If a writer falls in love with you
Sometimes you'll hurt
But you'd hurt anyways
Had you loved another.
If you love a writer, it may just be love
(Though that, in itself, entails enough!)
But if a writer falls in love with you
Know you'll live forever
No matter what you do.

Every word we say leaves an imprint on the soul.
The things we say can make a person feel whole.
It can make them despair and make them feel upset.
It can make them feel emotions they haven't felt yet.
Words can make someone fall in love, it can make their heart beat faster.
It can take their breath away, it can cause a disaster.
It can leave you wondering what they meant.
Or maybe leave you happily content.
It can help or hurt someone please be careful what you say.
Check your mind before you speak, check it all the way.

Writers are like gods,
While singers are angels;
Writers can be both,
If we fit in both angles;

Writers are creators
And the preservers of history,
Keeping accurate records,
From century to century;

Writers are prophets,
And oracles too,
We speak of the future,
Most of which comes through;

Writers are artists,
We create drawings in words,
And nothing's been more beautiful,
Than our gallery of words;

Writers are warriors
Winning wars with words-
Bullets and machine guns in our letters,
Have ended numerous discords;

Writers can be good lovers,
With strong emotions too,
A heart that is very fragile,
willing to share a love that's true.

I had a wound,
It hurt a lot.
But it gave me,
Each poem I've got.

Then one day,
I taped it up.
My writing, now,
Was not enough.

The wound and I,
Ironically -
Had to work,
In harmony.

I pressed the wound,
For it to bleed.
The words flowed out,
For all to read.

i love you like a painter loves his brushes.
how he’d always be careful with them,
taking his time to make his work perfect.
i love you like a photographer loves his camera.
how he’d always bring it around,
wanting to capture every perfect moment.
i love you like a writer loves his typewriter.
how the heavy push of the keys
are what bring him joy —
for he knew how beautiful the outcome would be.
i love you like i love … you.
how you’re always on my mind,
how you never leave my side,
how you love me too —
almost like love loves itself.

This moment is holding me still
in a second too long,
in a memory too deep,
in an ocean too infinite,
in a scar too wide,
a hollow too dark.
On a road where I can only stumble
because my legs
were not meant to walk,
because I have not learned
to give up this guilt
gnawing at my heart,
clawing at my arms
because I'm not sure
of all the things I do,
and all the things
you told me not to do but I still did.
But this is the end
and I let the moment hold me still,
so still that I almost feel
my heartbeat freeze in place,
so still that everyone doubts
if I was ever alive,
so still that earth feels like it moves,
so still that I can almost
Almost hear you screaming.
So still that I can almost
Almost feel your heart against mine.
So still that I can almost pretend that I'm alive.

Her body was battered. Any form of liquid within her circulation was stained red. It was pouring out from within her - profusely, incessantly. It overflowed out of wounds and inundated every crevice of her aching body.

She was dying.

The surface of her body was bruised. There were wounds that ran deeper than medicine could fix. Others were in the process of forming. She was weeping with a wail that could be heard loud and clear.

Her children sat watching idly.

One was ignorant, one in denial. One was oblivious. One was vigilant, observing silently.

Her dying body had spectators.

Slowly, parts of her started to lie still while others were in the process of following suit.

The continents came crashing down. The waves inside her wrecked the land she held. The jolts of her body sent earthquakes down the entire room.

Her children were disturbed for a while, but soon, they carried on with their routine. For them - it isn't over till it's over.

So she closed her eyes and let her body die. She gave up. She felt parts of her crash and burn. It was the end. It was time to go.