I write

when love illuminates me.

when indifference crashes too closely.

to preserve my sanity.

I live

when the ink creates an ocean, my thoughts in the waves.

when the clock eats, my person in the pages.

when the verses are penciled, my soul in the makings.

When the pillars I have built from

dreams,

crumble to dust,

I, the phoenix.
 

With a firm grasp on the pen,

I begin.

The darkening under my eyes, the silent truths witnessed.

The bruising above my shoulders, the burden of knowledge.

The cracking spread on my lips, the cosmos inside uttered.

The scarring of my flesh, the wounds denied treatment.

With a shout into the lonely void,

or,

a whisper of love’s finest joy,

all

poems echo

mankind’s call.

Of all the lines ever written,

a few have become pillars

in the river of thoughts,

constructed of cardiac stones.

To be heard,

or be silent,

that is not the question.

To be ravished

or be virgin,

that is not the answer.

Only,

to write

and be echoed.