My writing desk
My chair
A slap to the face
Fingers running through my hair
I will words
Which refuse to appear
I will
That which I will always fear
That only the quill knows how to be sincere
Unbuttoned shirt
A battered sternum
Under the hurt
The heart
Blooms the poisonous laburnum
Beating like a drum
I insert the quill
Holding in
Until it's had its fill of yellow ink
I do not think but write
Numbed but the words appear alright
I repeat until the flowers pass their bloom
And blackened fill the room
My throat is dry
My writing desk is wet
By my laburnum blood and sweat
Time to rest
To sew up my open chest
To sleep and in the morning feel again
Anatomical garden
Quill pen

Hungry for something
I have never seen before,
my eager eyes scour
pages of books.

Opening several books,
I marvel at the lives and stories
of true artisans of their time:
Xiao Hong, Joy Harjo, and William Faulkner.

I stare at each page,
trying to digest
every word
and imitate their style;

however, my mind draws blank
the moment the blank document
reflects back into
my empty mind.

Suddenly
intrusive thoughts rise
to the forefront of
my consciousness.

“How dare you think
you could ever become
a hero like them
without a single reader?”

I finally surmise that
I’m not a poet,
artist, or
author.

I don’t have the
soulless apartment flat
in the middle of a bustling city,
finding muse in every corner of life.

Nor do I have the freedom
to explore outside’s
blank landscapes
as there’s a spike of missing women reports here.

Instead,
I live in my empty childhood home,
bedroom walls plastered with heroes from video games
as I hide away from my mom’s boyfriend.

Afraid of both the outside and inside world,
I remain still.
I am no writer.
I am no hero.

Learn to love your tears.
They are
falling
for
you.

You're right
We as poets are
Self-amused entity  
Sane in thought  
Breathe with passion  
Dream circadian  
With the torrent of emotions  
  
We as poets
Look toward an open sky  
Communicate with cosmos  
Question lucidness  
Get something from nothing  
Glorify average, as special  
Feel everything, closer  
Spell, when have to  
Stay silent, when need to  
Touch, the untouched  
See, the hidden  
Honor: blood, sweat and tears  
Revive, the beauty of life  
Heal, the suffered  

With the recipe of words  
We as poets  
Yes, by default  
Go beyond norms  
Forget a lot, but not what should not  
Despite everything  
You're right

-The beast and the unclean *****.

One misty cold morning,
Whilst Ruth was snoring,
An intruder broke into her castle.

He found her all alone,
Within her grand home,
And then brutally ***** the fair damsel.

After he had his way,
He felt intense pain,
And died after his skin had turned purple.