Writing

The Reign

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"Where so many rush to fall asleep,

I tend to creep,

afraid of the a lack of light, 

what's in store for tonight. 

 

Would you like to know why?

I'm afraid of what's inside,

what I always seem to need,

what sleeps within me.

 

When the darkness falls

and my mind succumbs to sweet slumber,

lumbering in comes the pattering of feet,

clawed, and I can't seem to scream.

 

I try to get out from underneath the covers,

to run away, but I am stayed 

by the sudden jacket, holding arms back,

while at my heels chases the maniac. 

 

It is the ghoul, it's in my room,

and now theres nothing but abyss,

amiss of clothes and shoe and tooth

as I run to only bring closer nothingness.

 

And now I am within reach, looking back

at the black teeth, to tear my wide and tall,

before tripping onto face,

no hands to break the fall. 

 

And looking to what had cause the trip,

innocent children, empty faces,

look into me, through me, and it hurts,

it burns, no clue why they are in my plight.

 

And now taking flight, they chase me too,

I am running to a single point,

straight jacket still applied,

my escape impossible, my voice mute. 

 

Again, so focued to the rear,

I forget about the front, 

looking ahead to see now in front of me

the biggest snake ever slithers on scene. 

 

The snake grows bigger, stopping,

rearing its head, baring its fangs,

it wraps me in it's tail,

and squeezes me tight.

 

I can't stand the grip, crying out,

but no sound comes, 

just the sound of my eyes popping out,

and the sound of the plop.

 

The drop of me, hitting the carpet,

falling onto the floor, blanket wrapped around me,

back in my room, not monsters,

no snake no ghoul.

 

Just the sweat drenched shirt,

the paper-dry throat,

rattled, another night lost

to the internal battle. Nightmares reign."  

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So many have issues falling asleep, though the reasons are as numerous as some of them terrorizing. 

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The Girl And Her Wyrm

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"The Castle was gigantic. 

Expansive, was it's wide thrust,

filled with cracks, crevices and uneven bricks

pock-marked with mortar turning to dust.

 

Inside the deep recess

was a dormant terror,

up in it's highest tower,

a princess lived, none fairer. 

 

But both were locked up,

the furnace inside the gargantuan beast

kept the Castle warm,

the ovens hot, promoting many a feast. 

 

But lest the monster

breaks its shackles!

As once had happened before,

the quest none could tackle.

 

Knight after knight

fell to the flame,

the winged lizard licking tongues

of fire all about, untamed. 

 

Many an arrow was shot

from hunters brave, 

but no purchase for any arrow

was, by the monster hide, gave. 

 

Spear was no better,

having been thrown hard and true,

but not a single mighty heft

would force a metal tip through.

 

Then one day,

the princess who lived above,

just asked, 'give me a chance!',

but her father would allow no tug.

 

So that night,

while the great serpent ravaged the land,

she scaled down her tall tower

with the most daring plan.

 

She crept along the meadow,

in the cold of the moonlit night,

and up the the snoozing beast

she stomped her boot with all her might.

 

The beast sprung up,

startled awake by such a petite thing,

but before he bellowed flame,

she started to sing.

 

Sweetly, softly, 

she sang out her heart,

and through spirit, ripped hers out,

and handed it over, so that they'd never be apart.

 

Since then,

the two remain locked up with no regret.

The land has since healed.

But many don't forget.

 

Of the Girl and her Wyrm,

the star-crossed lovers never meant to be.

And how through love and song

she saved all the eye could ever see."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Mighty verus Meek. I've learned time and again to not underestimate those of small build; their characters are so often bigger than most.

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Kenopsia

Folder: 
To Be Illustrated

"Almost tiring,

the bump of the shoulders passing by,

the hallways so full of students, mean, 

their intentions unknown to what they vie. 

 

But the Janitor, 

mop handle twisting in wrists, 

cleans the bustling halls, murder

of the sparkling floors committed with fervor.

 

Moreover, the students don't care!

But no matter, the Janitor smiles as he cleans,

leaning on his swab bucket, no flair

for how unfair redoing the swab job is.

 

But now it is after five,

the older gentleman is working his way up and down,

the passageways now empty, 

all the students long gone home. 

 

Quite the opposite scene,

from when the school was full,

a loud and swarming event, specifcally

during the lunch periods. 

 

And during those times? While constantly 

going back and forth, picking up spills

and keeping the floor clean,

he even feels grumpy.

 

But only now at this momement,

a longing, a forlorn feeling wraps itself

over the un-bumped shoulders of the man,

alone, doing his job.

 

The sudden wish the students were there,

to fill the empty space he cleans, 

the abandoned place to fill up soon,

but not a moment too late, he steams.

 

All the moments that he's spent,

breaking up a fight between two boys,

frankly taking both collars in each hand

and talking to them sharply, they listened.

 

The time he talked to the crying girl,

leaning on the mop handle, wise counsel

spewed at a comforting rate to the young one

who had her first broken heart. 

 

Or the time he tutored the troubled youth,

not in math or english but in life,

the boy sticking around while he cleaned. 

alone, his only brother having been knifed. 

 

Every smile he evoked,

with silly, word-play jokes,

every time he snapped at young students passing by, 

keeping the rowdy in line. 

 

The old man now smiled himself,

finishing up the entire school,

looking forward to the bustle to come,

the lockers that will slam, voices, loud.

 

The end of this feeling, eerie,

sudden, and no more farther then

when he will grumble, with a slight smile,

of the busy hallways where he will be bumped again."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A imagined scene of an old man janitor that we may or may not all remember or think back to.

লিখলে আনন্দ মিলে

লিখলে আনন্দ মিলে,


মন বেলুনের মত হালকা লাগে!


সত্যি বলছি! এ নয় কথার কথা!


চিত্ত যেন মেঘ হয়ে আকাশে ভাগে!


 

পাথরের সাথে পাথর ঘষলে,


যেমন ক্ষয় হয় নিশ্চয়,


তেমনি করে আমার মনের কষ্ট হয় ক্ষয়,


বাক্যের যাতায় পিষ্ট হয়!


 

একেকটি বাক্য হয়ে উঠে একেকটি বুলডোজার!

 

দাঁড়াবে কষ্ট মুখোমুখি! সাধ্য কি আছে তার?

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Dear Writer

Write and write, then write some more

Oh how some have said “It’s a bore.”

What do they know? They don’t see

The magic of these words on trees

Tiny strips of once grand woods

Hold whole worlds, even in death

The tree is gone, but life is there

And it grows with every breath

To create such things as worlds and lives

To build them up and rip apart

The power, the emotions, oh dear writer

Here is a portal to your heart

Look at how each person changes

Look at how your worlds expand

Do you see lives rearranging

And all within your master plan

Oh, the excitement! Oh, the joy!

Beauty is here, beauty and life!

In the quiet of humble homes

A universe hides inside

Some poor souls won’t understand

They’ll never see what you have done

Don’t live for them, don’t mold your worlds

To show the cruelty they’ve become

Take a breath, then get to work

Go live within what you create

Be surprised, feel admiration

Feel love, joy, jealousy, and hate

Don’t be afraid to stray away

And wander down an unknown path

Surprise and awe aren’t just for readers

Not everything will need a plan

Just let the life grow on its own

Let the people all be free

And in their freedom, you will find

A world where you may wish to be

Life isn’t set in stone, my friends

And your writing is the same

Your words are alive, so just relax

And walk within your stories

Always remember, your world is living

It’s not just scribbles on a page

And always know, it’s your creation

 

Be proud, and please, keep writing

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I love writing, and got so excited when talking about writing that I felt the need to write a poem about it. Hope you enjoy.

Paper is the Land where I Sow the Words!

I sow the words in the paper,


Almost everyday,


I know that like the real tree,


The words shall bear fruits later!


 

Maybe shortly, maybe thousands of years after that,


If history does evoke my ardour,


If history does bestow me with special nobility,


In the next world, celestial peace my soul shall get.


 

Extremely beholden I am to my brain as well,

 

Without which I could hardly write and tell!

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Hanging Love in the Air

Folder: 
2015

Eyes staring through me,

humans with strange hearts

Love hangs in the air,

filling balloons on a string


Doors locked shut,

a hallway of tears,

I’m drowning and running

and getting nowhere

 

Spirits fill one half of me,

half dead,

eyes half closed

and humans with strange hearts

haunt my sleep

My heart is full

but my fingers are stiff from

going too long without

holding a pen

 

Words

finally open my eyes,

banish the spirits

and hang love in the air.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 9/19/15

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Kill Your Darlings

"Kill your darlings." I read in a book

Behind my glowing keypad, I shook.

Kill my darlings, you say?

Just pick up a rag and wipe it away?

Backspace, backspace, backspace, I press.

Making my paragraph noticeably less.

But I don't think I'm fooling anyone, I guess,

I really must start fresh.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

o==={>:::::::::::::>

Writing

 To me,

 

Writing is a therapy,


 It does reduce strain,


 Like a tablet lessening pain.

 

 

Written pieces are like assets,


 As soon as each writing gets,


 Visible on the paper,


 As a celestial gift the sense of joy does appear.


 

I want to spread the alphabets on the paper,


 The way seeds are spread by the farmer.


 

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