Posted in knick knacks, original

Poets

Poets are mostly introverts

Whose emotions they pour over

Art

Music

Poetry

Stories

They do not seek attention but would like the world to know they exist

We exist!

.

They see beauty in the sorrow

Turn ugly into pretty

They cry silently though

Their tears they turn to inspiration to others

.

They are dreamers

They are poets

Posted in original, writing

The Author

And that’s what he wrote

He began with the end

Ended where it all began

He wove the story so well

I thought it was swell

 

The author, so humble in writing and in person

A man who partakes his blessings

He humbles himself and teaches readers to be the same

You’ll never forget his name

 

The books of pages and pages full

Each one completes the treasure of the story within

I thank the author for sharing his gift

A true treasure worth sharing

Posted in original, writing

The Forgotten

I thought of it but I forgot

and so the page is blank

I tapped my pencil…

….one, two, three

but my brain is blank as ever.

I wrote it down but lost my rhythm

so a moment I paused

but the moment took forever

and now I’m back to square one.

the idea sprung out of nowhere

but my pencil was out of sight

I typed it in but just stared blank

again I have forgotten.

I stared at the ceiling

as if the idea would come falling

but it seems I may have stared too long,

since it looks like it’s melting.

I’ve racked my brains out

but still got nothing

so I ended writing a poem about fogetting

Posted in original

Inked

I bathe in black liquid, my head was fully soaked
my body was stiff — rigid, as the grip was held tight
the paper, solid white and blank, is now
littered with graffiti of handwriting
strokes, curves, dots – separated by spaces in between
what was thought of is now being written
 
I dive into that ooze of black liquid
as once again, another line, another word
needs to be written
smoothly I glide over the paper
as the writer does his job
writing in solid long-hand — beautifully written
 
I go into that bottle with the black liquid
once, twice…I lost count
yet I can’t complain as
the mark I leave behind, is as beautiful as a summer’s day