Her most deadliest weapon,
Is carried in her silence.

I write what I think
I think what I feel
I feel what the world gives me

The world gives me hope
The world gives me hopelessness
It gives me love
And lack of it
It gives me pain
And fear of it
Gives me beauty
And all forms of it
Gives me happiness
And ways to keep it (I still lose it)

All of these things, I write.

But you have to be in pain to be a writer

When I write about being violated
It becomes infamous
When I write about dying
Everyone loves it
But
When I write about the one thing that brings me happiness
Everyone is silent

You are silent

Because
People don’t want to see you’re getting better
People don’t care what’s brought you hope
They don’t care that you are finding happiness.
They want you to write what they feel
Write what they think but can’t say themselves so that they have someone to relate to
Write their pain so that you can be seen
Write how they feel in order to be alnowledged

But I don’t want to write for them
I only want to write for me
What I feel
What’s in my head
But I’ll never be known by doing that
Because I’m trying to get better
I’m trying to be happy

But you have to be in pain to be a writer

She sits in a
Cafe with her
Laptop open to a Page.
Plate empty with Crumbs
Coffee almost finished.
She ordered
a Cappuccino
not a Latte
wanting to watch her Weight
just in case

She planned for this Time
where she could wait for
Inspiration to strike. It hasn't Yet.

Ignoring her Needs
to finish that Paper
those Problems
take those Notes from the day she missed Class.

So this Window of Time
could be here
with the remainder of her Cappuccino growing cold
So she could be a Writer
and not a Student
a Worker
for this Window of Time

Yet now
it seems worthless
to schedule for Now
when the Inspiration still has
Yet
to Strike

When it seems,
demotivated due to the routines,
and tired of deciding in-betweens,

And all negativities work in teams,
against all your mights,
to push you back from all your heights,

Like the sunbeams,
after the couple of days,
of monsoon rains!

what come up are your dreams!
'cause of which you are here on your way,
'cause of which you will again stand up and stay!
'cause of which you will hold on again for a day, everyday!

WHEN THOUGHTS ABOUT IT FLOW IN YOUR MIND PINGPONG,

AND YOU GET CONCERNED ABOUT GETTING IT WRONG,

ITS RIGHTFULNESS IS NOTHING BUT WAITING FOR YOU TO COME TOWARDS IT HEADLONG!

Writers are quite dangerous.
She came to the bar, to watch,
And listen, to hear stories.

Carefully, I tread. For fear,
That my own diction, would become
Trapped in her world of fiction.

Though, of course we swapped pieces.
And still, only selected to paint,
A vision of my own creation.

Small freedoms, but they matter most.
As I'm a prisoner to demon's I host.
Be wary poets, of power most foul.

Ensnaring half spectres of being,
In a prose, a thought or a feeling.
Reality is as real as you write it.