Writer's Dream

A leaf of you.

They plead for truth, mimicking the door creak. A rocking chair wavers on sight in one corner. The sun’s glare brings back the laughter of a jolly born. A grand season it was.

Beautiful scars


Never were our names uttered

without a slip of the tongue,

a hint of anger,

a stench of mockery.


Forgotten we were,

when feet hasten for glory.

Quiet and dark was our world.


The stillness edges in,

we breathe hard,

we suffocate,

we question our existence.


Lies lies,

doubt fear,

nothing makes sense,

nothing to pull us back.

We awaken as a force to reckon.


How do I learn to love, when I barely crack a smile? How do I fix shattered hearts, when offered a paste of flour? To walk in this pair of boots, known to leave prints of disgust and hate. Will I have to fake it all like a Fischer’s chameleon? Hide my pile of emotions like a child hiding a candy bar?

One thing for sure, I won’t shy from the lies, sorrow and agony that has surrounded me for years. When dawn comes and my eyes make peace with the sun’s golden rays, I have a choice to make. I have to be the best that I can be.

So if you are a lover.

be a sea of seven colors.

If you are a giver,

give till it aches.


If you are royal,

let masses chant your name.

If you are a cheerer,

fill their eyes with laughter.


If you are a builder,

thank your boundless arms.

If you are a dreamer,

look up to the blue skies.


If you are a healer,

be a fountain of hope.

If you are a spooner,

You are irreplaceable.

You are all irreplaceable.


I strike a match of hope,

to blaze in sincerity and wisdom.

I speak from my heart,

to open up my mind and soul.

Join me in my endeavors.


Her voice

Keep your head up child,

Keep your shoulders broad,

Keep pushing,

better days are coming.


Neither tire nor worry,

keep shuffling your feet if may,

not looking back.

Better days are coming.


Nothing to cling to?

No one to lean on?

Just a blade of faith

To keep you moving?

Better days are coming child.




Blue skies

I am a victim of fear.

fear to face tomorrow,

fear to trust another,

fear to love again.


I am a victim of criticism.

Critics haunt my being,

critics burn my ears,

critics shred my dreams.


I am a victim of hesitation.

Suppressed by memories,

I retreat deeper and deeper

to where it all begins.


Despite all, I rise.

For it keeps me warm,

erasing my doubts.

Blue skies are my remedy.

The faint line.

A man’s word is brittle,

quick to impress,

hard to keep.

He seeks pleasure,

in the puny issues in life.


But a man with guts

driven by passion,

armed with an affection for others

and who picks the right time for war,

is a man of his word.

Never too late.

It’s never too late

to chase the wild winds

that breathes hope

into your wrecked soul.


It’s never too late,

to live in your memories

painted with a brush of glamour

flicked on a wall of dreams.


It’s never too late,

to stare into her eyes,

her sweet brown eyes

clasping her tight in your arms.


The beauty in you,

is one of a kind.

The peace in you,

is overwhelming to me.


Yet they shove you to the front,

of the deadliest battles in life.

They fail to understand,

that you are a fighter.


You’ve always been,

the master behind the scene.

Who lets them think,

they have it all.

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