The soul of a writer is as tormented as the clash of tides in the sea.
There is an ongoing battle between what is right and what is wrong.
The writer's mind experiences an unexplainable turmoil of raging emotions.
There is no escape from the cages that surround the heart except for writing... writing till the words bleed with truth.
Till the colour of the ink becomes the colour of their soul.

with this pen in
my hand
and your warm fingers
filling the
spaces between mine,
I swear
upon the stars
that we
will never die.

Friend of mine in heartache,
Devour the muse you enstress
Make your hands shake
With the words you harness.

Take your mind to wander,
For the comfort of the soul.
Let your physical ponder,
And create sound per vowel.

Hey friend,
Let me know
If your heart still aches
Once your soul creates.

Bashed for my age
and my single-dom
I shrugged in carelessness
and slapped a smile on my face

Questioned for my actions
I hugged them and told them
to partake in conversation
that did not happen virtually
but physically

Shunned for my appearance
I loosened my untamed hair
and fixed my piercings
blew them a kiss

Miss-judged for my behavior
I lifted my drink and cheered them
for their ignorance

Ignored for my elation
I patted them on the back
hoping they'd only feel an iota
of what I feel, everyday

Punished for my recklessness
I begged them to see the world
through my eyes and how colorful
it would be

Insulted for my honesty
I opened their eyes
to their insecurities
that to me
are
truly
beautiful

For glory

I am writing
For glory

I am lighting
This cigarette
For I deserve it
I am having
This cigarette
Because I am
No longer addicted

I am writing
For glory, my own
For once
I am stoked

I am hardest
On myself
My greatest critic
Is always editing

A sweet moment
To be content
Enjoy, my friend,

Glory is also
Being able to praise oneself.

It's been a little while since I tried this
self-therapy via words
that I won't share with anyone
but strangers near or far

a little while since my prose
got up from their beds
dusted off some cobwebs
and stretched their limbs

a little while since the black ichor
the ink that sometimes
bleeds out onto laptop keys
became mediocre poetry

and I get it, life's been hard
not too hard, but busy
not emotionally, but physically
and I didn't really need it

but I missed this
this little stretch of mental finesse
this warming up of metaphors
this cracking of poetic knuckles

Maybe this is what it's like to be understood.

stardust builds a home
for its particles in almost
everything
but i think more than
a few particles found you

it's uncanny the way
you mimic a star’s behavior

you shine your brightest
right before i lose you

though i want
nothing more than
to help
you're far away

distant from the others
who only admire stars
but never enough to
become one like you

and i can't help but
wonder who tore you
from your throne and
tethered your helpless
soul to a place
that could never be home
-DDF