The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper, releasing passion onto pages, telling of love, remembrance and anguish. The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together; the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia. Memories do not die, they only sleep, to be awakened again in vivid recollection. They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love, and pain exposed in its rawness. Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded; the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored. The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony; it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story. He is no Poet Laureate, but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent; in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder. In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour.
For so long I held on, my tightened grip— a surety that I would not slip. You came and held onto me as I wept, and talked to me with love, through gentle breaths. To convince me to release, you guided me step by step; in my apprehension I feared my descension, but you promised to be my protection. The torment of my soul was my vulnerability, still, I closed my eyes and let go; you caught me, and I finally breathed deeply. In my descent into your loving arms, I fell freely. In my release, you became my peace. I kept falling— and love is what I fell in.
She is a goddess, once broken. Celestial stars crown her in twilight; The fire of her passion illuminates the naked night. Through the vehemence of her eyes, see her. The delicateness of her is unchanged; Though strong winds blow against her, Her scepter and crown remain.
Standing in front of the mirror, for a long time, she stared at herself and began to remove the facade— slowly peeling off all of the layers; at the foundation she made a breathtaking revelation as she wept, beholding a being that was a divine creation, exuding magnificence and angelic light with every breath.
She steps out of the darkness with resolve, Her broken heart not fully healed; Still, she carries on with quiet strength and beautiful calm. She is not deterred, though her tears are carried in the wind; She does not weep for herself but for him; It was in the second trimester, that she named him. She weeps over her loss but will try again; In her pain, she called on heaven to safely deliver him, But it was not as she prayed for it to be; In tears, blood, and agony she miscarried— But now, it is in her heart, that he is carried. She says his name in beautiful whispers And sings to him lovingly, Saying, My beautiful baby, forever you are a part of me.
If we should fall, tell the world of our exploits, the pain in our hearts, and how for so long we survived the dark nights. Tell them of what we’ve endured here, the tears, the weeping, for so many years. Tell them that we’ve loved and have been loved, but by the third season our hearts were shattered and the remnants of our loving hearts, scattered. Tell them of the injustice we have endured here, and of our martyrs. Tell them of the blood that runs every summer and the crying voices that hope to conquer; Tell them of the beauty of our mothers and the quiet strength of our fathers. Tell them that we weep and suffer, but somehow we still survive the coldest winters. Tell them that twelve judge us with prejudice, and the color of our skin condemns us. Tell them of apathetic eyes that watch us with hatred and bias and the system set up to destroy us. Tell them of our ancestors who came over on ships to be enslaved for generations— In tears, raped, separated and whipped. Tell them that, at our breaking point we didn’t give a shit, and we were not afraid of death in our final moments. Tell them that their bullshit sentiments are meaningless and they walk around as empty husks, soulless. Tell them that we gave it everything we had, and faced our fates with tears of resolve—and boldness.