For my mother

From womb to tomb, a gift from you,
a love never-fading, ever true.

To gift me with comfy home,
to protect me with those hand you own.

There is always your warm embrace,
that shields me from the human race.

My own safe haven to behold,
to me more precious than any gold.

Reality overcomes me

As usual the dreams end eventually and waves crash mercilessly onto the rocks. Reality breaks in. the disillusionment stings like the icy winter air, clawing against my skin my body shakes. Where was the fire? The once strong flames ebbed as time passed. Slowly the rocks eroded, until there will millions of small holes, perfect and round. The violent rage of the lapping, now gentle waves continued to gradually eat away at the flesh and blood of granites and once brilliant emeralds. Black skin torn off from the hulls of unused boats, there is no need for them now.

The need.

I couldn’t help but wonder why it felt so bad, to want to write so badly my fingers stumbled over the words on the keyboard. I am trembling. The emotions have welled up to a breaking point where everything must spill over. Splash onto the paper like those black ink do. Over the brim, over the brim. It is a jumble of incoherent ideas and words, swirling into a whirlpool of chaos. I struggle to find a single straight thought, but I find none in between the lines. Those accusing lines! Those scrawling tiny lines, of messy and chaotic untamed thoughts. The emoticons are so ironic, they don’t reflect the sender’s emotions. Unlike this spattered array of alphabets. They lie, straight into your face. They know you know they are lying, but they are there, stinging and making you cringe. 

Messy, Messy, Messy.

SUCH A NEED TO SPILL INK OVER PAPER.

Writer’s block

To be coming out with messy, chaotic plots with spates of vocabulary at my command, yet when my pen touches the paper, it leaves nothing but the black spreading ink dots, forever expanding outwards in circles. The ink seeps through the fibres of rough, brown paper, its coarse texture reminding me of sands at the beach, but cooler. The dot becomes a spot, its moist slowly forcing its way through the interwoven threads of white. Angrily, strokes cross and recross over the written words. Frustration is spilled onto the paper with the torn bits of scrap, unformulated ideas ripped into shreds. 

A new, fresh slate is presented again. Hesitantly my pen starts to scribble on, the words starting to flow from the tip of my imaginings. Drawn in ink, with minute details. But it all seemed wrong, the wrong colour, wrong shade, wrong setting. Crumpled up, the white sheet now spattered in inklets and alphabets is discarded. 

The clock irritates me, the ticking is a poison that seeps into my veins and gnaws my innards. What is keeping me from thinking straight? From doing what seemed to be so easy before? I was asking more and more unanswered questions, never to be known. The wall is erected right there, the bricks so thick and heavy it weighs me down. I push and pull, but the barrier stays, between me and my solitude, between me and my peace.w