On a derelict island lived a solitary youth,
A desolate prisoner of his own- the unfathomable truth.
Enclosed by the fence which his own hands had built.
All day he lay, still as a rock, eyes fixed on the silt.

From his enclosure, the same sorry shells he would collect everyday.
And when he put them together, they never failed to look the same way.
The job he once loved was now monotonous and mundane,
No longer did people want to see his shells- so ordinary and plain.

One warm day, a shell so unlike the others his fence did hit,
Fascinated, he took down a piece of his fence with a new-found grit,
Joyously, he discovered a whole wide world of many a beauteous shell,
Vivacity enveloped him and godspeed, he took down the rest of his fence as well.

But the island, in reality, was his isolated mind,
The fence, the enclosure for his mind, around the ‘island’ was aligned.
The shells stood for thoughts, words and the inspiration he could attain.
As the writer opened up his mind, he fell in love with words again.

She was
A word artist, delicately stringing letters together on a long beaded necklace of a poem
She was
An escape artist, writing to numb herself of the pain that incessantly stabbed her in places that should not feel,
Her heart, her mind, her body was corrupted...
She was
an Artist
Who felt more than the World should have allowed her to Feel
She carried the weight of the World on her shoulders, every day becoming weaker instead of Stronger
She was
an Artist
Who couldn't put the pen down

You're so sweet, I want to carry you around,
Shrink ya, place you in my pocket...
You can whisper little stories to me 'cause you're a great writer,
From my jacket pocket you can get all the inspiration you need!
Now all I have to do is shrink you, get you a little pad of paper and a little pen, oh and then...
You'll be my pocket sized writer..

ink smudges stain
my callused
fingertips.

Hello
Hi
Welcome, it's an invitation to my crooked soul,
To my unwilling heart

You need not know my name,
For names do not explain why I am the way I am,
Why I write the way that I do;

All you need, is a little introduction, to the things that matter -

I love the moon and the stars,
In all their metaphoric beauty,
I live for the love both within and of fiction
But I do not crave to be in love myself,
Loud and shy simultaneously,
I fight with my own stupidity
A writer without a choice,
For without it I am
A crooked soul at best

And suddenly I realized
I'd spent far too much time
Trying to write a poem
As beautiful as her.

I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

At night she talks about you
she goes to sleep thinking about you
how her happiness died with you're relationship
how she can see herself with no one else
at night you're alone, but happy
you go to sleep thinking about your day
and not how you hurt someone to the point where
they want to hurt themselves.

Tener mente de escritor es probablemente una de las más grandes maldiciones que se le puede concebir a una persona.

    Primero; comienzas a cuestionar todo a tu alrededor, no pierdes ni un detalle. Ya no es buscar a tu novia, que vive pasando la esquina. Es despertar; ver que el día está algo nublado. Pensar que las nubes grises te gustan y te causan paz y eso te causa cierta bohemia y te da ganas de escribir algo. Ya no es caminar; es andar. Andar viendo el suelo y pensar: "Mis pasos son lentos... a mi alrededor todo es taciturno. Las nubes, oh, dulces nubes. Dulces pero amargas formas que luego destruirán el cielo y mojaran la arena con su transparente sangre".

   Segundo; no es ver a tu novia esperando en su puerta; es: "Y ahí estaba ella... tan hermosa... tan delicada. Tan irreal que me causaba gozo sólo existir para poder verla a la vuelta de la esquina...".

   Ahora, imaginemos aplicar éste principio mórbido e involuntario a cada aspecto de la vida.
   Tener mente de escritor es probablemente una de las más grandes maldiciones que se le puede concebir a una persona.