I Just Had To Write...

There are times when you want to write. Write miserably, as if your life depended on it. Write or die. Write or perish. Writer’s Block, notwithstanding. It seems if you don’t write now, you are missing out on letting the world learn something for itself. It’s an urgent need that you can’t always address. What will I write on? Why do I have no ideas? What should I write? What if it just ends up like rubbish?

But then you calm yourself down. So what if it’s rubbish? Not the end of the world. Your job is to write, which you have. Now leave it. Go to your next piece. But don’t stop writing. For if the pen runs out of ink, aye, you’ll never be able to find yourself again.

Poems of Exaggerations, Writings of Solitude

The muse that she is,
she always inspires
to create an image, to write about her,
so that the world knows that beauty exists
not just in the eyes of the beholder.

Her beauty can be felt too.
The hair, she can’t make up her mind,
sometimes long,
sometimes short,
but they feel the need to grace everyone with its blessed presence.
Her eyes, brown as the fresh bark of the banyan tree,
ageless, look at you.
Melancholy resides within.

A hint of cynicism, coupled with a trust so scant,
she doesn’t remember when the last time was that she wrote
with all her heart.
Poems of exaggerations, writings of solitude,
all have been abandoned in favour of a life,
full of awareness.

She trips, and falls and trips again,
hallucinates, is hypnotised,
but recovers.
The sordid scribbles and dreamy doodles will return
to her.

Her crazy heart sings
like the canary outside her window,
every spring morning.