Tired, too tired.
Wearied, too wearied.
Dead, not yet.

With heaps and mountains of books, knowledge,
Stacked against
My will to write.

The courage to type,
The creativity to venture,
The effort to write.

The writer’s block,
The excuses to not write,
The lack perseverance.

I am too tired to write,
My body, mind, and soul are,
Especially me.

I had forgotten
Why, when, what, how, who, where,
To write.

My heart
Bends, shakes.

You rekindle my hopes to write.
You make me feel that I am not alone.
You. Me. We.

Aneurysm cascades,
Resembling everything.


Waiting from dusk till dawn,
Waiting from now till then,

In fear, I was,
Scared of losing you,
Even if I had tried, or not,
I was scared.

I just don’t know how to deal with this anymore.
I gave up, but the feelings aren’t contained.


Craving for more? Down below:
Same Taste
Talking to Myself
Reminiscence And Something To Create
You Are A Mustard Seed of Miracles
Precision And Skill
One More Light
A Moment of Light