They say he never sleeps,
Eyes wide, a steady gaze,
Not from the buzz of late-night thoughts,
But from the quiet pace of days.
Yet something lingers in his stillness,
A shadow wrapped in light,
A flicker of a restless mind,
Too quiet in the night.
......
As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
......
There is always a poem waiting—
an understudy, breathless in the wings,
shadowed by today’s centre stage,
its lines trembling, yearning to be heard.
This poem, however, holds its ground.
It stands, distinct as a fingerprint,
etched with the soul of its unwritten forbears—
the lived and the whispered, but never fully spoken.
......
The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it'll be
okay
"He's a true fighter," she said. "I know he'll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He'll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him."
"Mam," said the doctor. "We found rusty fragments
......
In New Forum, where shutters dam the sun's stream,
A quilt of souls in a chessboard's dream.
A crush of commerce in a serpentine dance,
Where shadows flicker, and silence prances.
Smiths and spinners, a chorus of toil,
Their labor weaves dreams on the loom of will.
Cries of merchants in measured tone,
Echo through arches, time's own drone.
......
When a poet takes up arms
their quill is orphaned quick
though the pen is mightier
the sword some bards will pick
however just the cause may be
forsake their weapon true
to lose what makes them free
sad the day when all is through
There is always a poem waiting—
an understudy, breathless in the wings,
shadowed by today’s centre stage,
its lines trembling, yearning to be heard.
This poem, however, holds its ground.
It stands, distinct as a fingerprint,
etched with the soul of its unwritten forbears—
the lived and the whispered, but never fully spoken.
......
They say he never sleeps,
Eyes wide, a steady gaze,
Not from the buzz of late-night thoughts,
But from the quiet pace of days.
Yet something lingers in his stillness,
A shadow wrapped in light,
A flicker of a restless mind,
Too quiet in the night.
......
They cling to the weight of their quill,
the tactile sensation, grounding them,
yet, the digital tide pulls at their resolve,
urging them to adapt or be left behind.
Nostalgia blooms in the scent of old books,
memories of applause, now distant echoes,
the poet's dilemma, a struggle within,
to honour tradition or embrace the new.
......
As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
......