to resurrect the dead
to bring closure to unrequited love
to experience a world in which the underdog actually wins –
why writers write and readers read
to carve or believe an alternate
more pleasurable reality
with each stroke of a pen
Every library I visit during my travels reminds me of my mother. The countless days we’d walk over to our local library, plastic Food Max bags filled to its handles with books. She educated her children in a country that never recognized her as its own blood, despite how much she bled on its grounds. I spend every moment questioning how to heal her wounds. So I write each day, hoping letters, ink, keystrokes, and pages can cure the anguish that seeps through her veins. One day, it will.
They say a writer who waits for the ideal conditions to work
dies without putting a word on paper
There is something dying everyday inside of me
Because I can’t stop the clock to write these ideas
like a blight to me.
My soul is seared
Can’t fix my life
like I fixate on words
craving a fix of paper and pen
Ten months since I’ve bled a poem.
Writing is the only true home
sinking with the rest of the world
need to forget society.
I know I’ve disappointed that part of me
for having not achieved what she yearned
for me to achieve
Yet still I know there is an older, wiser me
anticipating for me to change my indolent
course of action
stuck in a timeless mirror contraption.
Break her out
the only weapons are my words
So write for her
Because my heart cannot conceive to deceive my own again.