Poem: Miles and miles.

Miles and miles I’ve walked
not a rain cloud in sight,
beneath these calloused feet lay dry
the parched earth, till to knees I fall.

Miles and miles, crawled
palms red and bleeding till raw,
unable to hold the weight of tears,
stings and burns like coal.

Miles and miles.
So long the march, lonesome and tired
fraught with doubts, barbed and thorny,
will I ever arrive, at the gates of thoughts,
where dreams have birthed a desire strong
from whence I shall not return, be what may fall.

Miles and miles I’ve come,
the shores I’ve left all but blurred
out of reach, gone.

Miles and miles. Long.

(The poem is dedicated to everyone’s struggle to achieve a dream they have dared dream, including my own.)

Writing: The main reason you are compelled to write.

Ever really thought about it? Your reason for writing, whether you write poetry, short stories, book, scripts, technical/academic papers, or news/tabloid articles, do you know why you write? For fun, for escape, to express, to lose reality, for money, to inform or gossip, or because you have to since it’s your job?

I think I am safe in the assumption that most people who do so usually have their reasons muddled. Some think they do it for fun, when in fact they like the gains afterwards, a smile on a face, laughter, emotion coxed, or perhaps monetary reason? What ever it is, there is no denying you, and I have a reason! We all do, it’s why we do what we do.

Consider the following:

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That age old effort to suvive! Yep, that’s right, writers, at the bottom of it all really write because it is part of their survival plan, and that’s not to just survive in the sense of breathing and going through the daily motions. No, that survival is of the inner being, of being able to celebrate their individualism, to push away the culture of conformity that is emerging in society, made worse by mass social media and the publicizing of private lives.

Where would we all be if we dressed the same, are the same, looked the same, acted the same, and even spoke in similar tones? Boring, huh?

Some people express their individual, uniqueness through material choices. Writers express their selves through words not necessarily written for the public arena. That’s what we have to remember whenever we wonder about the drive that keeps a writer pursuing writing, a musician continuing to write songs, a dancer on their feet, or an accountant keeping records. Yet others survive giving their lives over to nurturing young, old and the sick. It’s what makes us tick.

I tick through writing (and obviously blogging about it). It’s my survival technique. What’s yours? Photography? Ballet? Sports? Academia? We all have something. We are all surviving, some in groups, others in solitude.

Dream battle

Mired and many
are the mortal dreams
that beckon
till it owns the soul.
What is life if not a battle then
to keep sane and move on.

Pen bleeds

This piece is blatantly obvious. As writers, we are mad!

Pen bleeds

It be a dream
addiction aplenty
holding captive
the mind and time
and madly
reaching for another sheet
the pen bleeds
must scribe, more, more, MORE
the fever has hit
though life awaits impatiently beside
the mad-rippled human
delirious, uncaring
writes
…till the pen bleeds no more

Where in the maze shall I stray?

OMG!!! Before I let you delve into this piece of poetry I’ve just penned on the train (and I’m still here – in the train that is).
Here is what I wanted to say.
Will you give me a moment worth sharing, today?
This piece is quite personal,
slightly unconventional, I must say.
It was an utter labor of love,
for all the muses, that do leave me
somewhat astray.

Before long, I give you…

Where in the maze shall I stray?
Hard of hearing,
and no, I don’t mean that thing
where I yell at you as part of a conversation.
And no, I do not also mean deaf – you’re far from it.

Hard of hearing, you are,
hearing all the words that say,
‘You are going the wrong way!’
Perhaps you should have paid a moment and taken the right turn, they say.

Hurt of hearing,
and yes, I mean what I say,
this is the part you’ve dreamed,
this is all that’s been consuming your everyday.

Hurt of hearing, you are,
hearing all the words that say,
‘You will never make it this way!’
Perhaps it’s still not too late to change, not too late they pray.

Yet you plow,
heart still hurting somehow.
Should you still follow,
the road that lies ahead,
hidden within a maze?

Hard of hearing, you say?
No, I’m just ignoring, while I be searching for that who leads me away.

Where in the maze shall I stray?