The words fall short
of their meaning
the one beyond the read

The lines weaken
and leave the reader
with a sense of boredom

The heartbeat
only in that cage
and fails to bleed
on pages

The papers
become satiated
with empty ink
lacking quality

The poet
loses him/her/them self/ves
in that limbo
between
head
and heart
running on a treadmill
trying to catch the fleeting muses

The poet dilutes
in reality
his/her/their greatest
fear
for that is
what they
try to escape
in every
poem

Whenever you enter my thoughts
A fire begins to burn fiercely in my heart
Destroying everything in its path
Except any positive thoughts
And from my mind, emerges a voice
Saying "You can do it
And you WILL do it!"
Whenever something seems amiss
I think of your struggles
And gradually, do I find myself more capable
Of achieving every task that is set before me
A Harry Houdini, you may not be
However, an inspiration are you, for sure
Because, so much do you care
About righting all the wrongs in our society
Casteism, Hindutva, Islamophobia, gender inequality
Determined are you, to fight hard for social justice
Even if you end up paying a huge price
I consider myself an extremely lucky person
To know such a lovely human being like you
Who talks not through words but actions
Though you are a very loving partner and mother
Rarely, do you showcase your affection and care
Your sheer nerve and bravery would make Godric Gryffindor proud
Your patience, dedication, loyalty and sense of justice would make Helga Hufflepuff proud
Your sharp wit and natural curiosity would make Rowena Ravenclaw proud
And finally
Your sheer ambition, determination and resourcefulness would make Salazar Slytherin proud
Always, will you be my primary motivator
Keep rocking, keep fighting and do take care
May the Almighty bless you forever!!

I strain to chase my own inspiration
But ev’ry day there’s only artifacts
From my past eras, this lonely creation
Takes every fleeting feeling like a fact.

I seek, I seek, but rarely do I find
The abstract answer I was looking for;
You’d think you can’t get lost inside your mind
But sometimes you don’t own the parts you store.

It truly is a pit without a bottom
To stare the depths that lie within your heart
Because we underestimate the *****’s
Ability to turn pain into art.

Although it may appear to be a void
A writer’s well of words can’t be destroyed.

~A grimy, grimace of a grungy summer day~

Good Morning!


let the un-fun sting,
as the ardor never begins,
forecast a grimy grimace of a lousy
day ahead, at best, a clouded mess,
just to differentiate between bereaved
periods of rain, that train you in windows~
avoidance, for a grunge gloomy invades
all six senses (including the brain)
where all are concatenated),
and you can actually feel
the pallor descending
from brow to the bow
of your container,
feet swelling,

and you
in addition
to avoiding windows,
put some towels out over
all the mirrors, lest your pallor,
ah,

too late,
the grim grimace of grunted day
arrived even before the poem
was conceived, I deceived,
once more, the bore drill
drives a tubular of
despondency into
my spinal seam

Whether Weather Wither Whine Wailing
*****-Nilly  Wade  Why Why Writer

Why, Writer?

I have seen world's I haven't visited.
Experienced hardships I wasn't meant for.
I have loved families that weren't mine I have fought battles conquered foes even when I had no idea on how to wield a sword.
I have felt the joy and laughter in children.
I have felt the struggles of emperors' and princes' yet I wasn't royalty.
I have taken charge of armies as a general I even played the damsel in distress might I say.
I have forged words like how a blacksmith does to metal but for me as a wordsmith.

~This is the diary of a writer✍

I am a writer, and I put my hands to writing.
I train my hands in the ways of warriors.
When enemies come looking for a fight,
I give them a war.

I train my hands in the ways of farmers.
When spring comes around,
I till the soil and plant seeds.

I train my hands in the ways of artists.
With brushes and colours,
I paint the world as I see it.

I train my hands in the ways of musicians.
With strings and keys,
I create melodies that speak my heart.

I train my hands in the ways of builders.
With hammer and nails,
I construct dreams from mere ideas.

I train my hands in the ways of healers.
With gentle touch and care,
I mend wounds both seen and unseen.

I am a writer, and my hands do more than write.
They fight, they farm, they create, they build, they heal.
In every action, in every deed,
My hands tell the stories of my soul.

~
How did a dead man in Reno
come to be a field of ink
in the Martian salt flats-?

It only took a whisper

An addicted civilian
driving the metaphor machine
the last man to voluntarily fly
asleep and well hidden
writing about his life
without survival techniques

Autopsy report says
he slipped at the hand rail
blemishing his planet
in riding time's escalator
a longing to see the stars up close
and give them new names
it's the future grim repasts
of cullen shores
from a cancelled earth

That silently floating figure
was a human all along
~