I'm a writer,

But what if I tell you that I'm losing my identity? It's been a few months and I feel that I'm slowly losing my ability to write.
I always considered myself a poet. But now, I feel like a dictionary with thousands of blank pages. With no definition and no sense of reason.
And I'm scared.
How will you ever love me now?
You fell in love with me because of my words, didn't you?
They always stirred some sort of emotion within you. Something that you tried so hard to hide. But whenever you read the poems that I wrote, your armor cracked.
What if I tell you that writing had slowly turned into a burden? Baggage that has now become too heavy for me to carry all alone. I realized a while back, how I pushed myself to write just to connect with you. To let you know how I'm suffering. I expressed all my agony through those words. I wrote about how, all those words, that had once been a blessing now seem like punishment.
You called that mad rambling of words, 'Beautiful.' You were too blind to see how this pain was consuming me. So, once again I forced myself to down the poison that you thought, tasted like an age-old wine.

Darlin, the words have abandoned me, and now so did you.

Acorns in absentia
Adorn the barren field
Ungathered post the autumn fall
Unsprouted seed beyond recall
Withered where once was wherewithal
In accord with the fallow yield

And will the bare earth reignite
Weedwild and verdant, full of fight  
Second wind, second sight,
Some forgotten, refracted beam of light
In shifting dust revealed

Some autumnal hymnal hummed
Will popping fruit to fullripe come
Once this lull’s long hurt is healed
This restless tomb unsealed

For now
Acorns in absentia
Adorn the barren field

I.

Words can be more powerful than deeds
if you know how to use them.
But
how do you know that you know
how to use them?

Is it
when your best friend smells
the green of your grass,
When your sister remembers her tears
in your poem?
When the stranger tastes the salt in your sea air and
When a renowned poet sees you’re a brilliant diamond? But
When will you believe them?
When would you believe
in yourself?

But
you are just an amateur and are clueless and
you don’t believe

you can do it.
When will you stop doubting
[whether you’re any good/yourself and your skills] and

start practising your art,
start placing down your words.
Know that you know
how to use them.
Believe them.


II.

Your words are like ants
on the paper;
small, few perhaps. But
when you add them all up

you have a legion of punches.
You’re a warrior of words,
powerful, mighty, gentle, defending
and building the people.
Your people.

To them
a hero is what you are
when you share your speaking pictures,
when you show your singing words,

when you believe it yourself.
You are.
You are a writer.
Write your words.


III.

No-one knows you
sees you
hears you.
You have no name
yet. When you
write like you’re not scared
type like your words have power
try different pens like
you have a hundred swords,

you will become
somebody.
When you are just
a nobody who believes
in themselves, when

you are just an amateur and are clueless and
when you believe

you will shake the world.
You will always be somebody,
no matter what.
You will.
Because you can.


IV.

You’re a writer.
You have words.
They’re yours.

You will know when you know
how to use them.
Just believe in them.
Write them.

Among the dancing daffodils
And there above in the milky way.
In all rhymes of Wordsworth
And in all of the Shakespeare's play.
"YOU" and "I" sublimed into us.

Few bucks could buy her rugs.
Or may be a loaf.
So,In need of a bread,
A mother sold her womb.
What a *****, you'll say!
But a mother too is a human.
Who could be hungry and cold!
Have you ever thought that way?

Pretty eyes,Pink lips.
Admirable beauty.
How sassy!
But wait, is that a brothel!
Huh *******!
Seconds you took to change your thoughts,how critical that is!
Now think!
To dress her younger self,
May be she undressed her self-esteem.
But you'll think the other way.
How unforgiving!

One more moment
Is all it takes
Eyes met eyes
And the souls fuse
such as quick drying cement.
both hearts beating as one
A beautiful rhythm
A song speaks
singing the words of our love
Together, we need not say a word.
As we feel peaceful.
As our souls take flight
LIke the White-winged Dove.

As I arrived at the apex of my life
I took a look around and saw
that I was not myself as I once had been,
I am now a faint copy, soft lines with blunt edges.
There was nothing sharp, dynamic or bold left of me.
I sacrificed my inner fire to create
a more welcoming environment for somebody else.
I had turned myself into a picket fence
when I was once not only a steep mountain
but the entire horizon.