Can't get this page to fill
This pen is bleeding white noise

Creators are made off their failures
And achy finger joints

I'm digging untill my back breaks
Silence I won't accept

I promise
Next time I'll feel the words
I'll write
If they return

I am a bit unlucky
Yes, not always can everybody be lucky
But misfortune has befallen me many a time
My marriage was a ball of slime
I have lost a few friends
Though my behaviour towards them was almost blameless
Many a time, I get credit not
Even if my work is nearly perfect
Due to my Asperger's Syndrome
I do not feel at home
During many a social interaction
Really, do I do my best, to make a good conversation
However, mistakes are inevitable
Because, perfection is impossible
My ignorance is not my fault
It is God's fault
Definitely, do I need some compensation
For each and every misfortune of mine
Struggling am I, to find love
Though there is a lot, that I can give
Being a divorced male is a big curse
In a society that has a huge bias
Against anyone who is "different"
However, I will fight
To overcome all my insecurities
And drive away all my demons
But I certainly need some luck
Otherwise, life will remain dark
Yes, I am a bit unlucky for sure
However, I will try my best to ensure
That this does not remain the case
Wrong, will I prove all my doubters
Rise will I, against all odds
For now, am I overthinking
But soon, will I be planning
To rise from the ashes, like a true phoenix
Yes, not at all easy, is achieving success
However, as mentioned earlier
I am a fighter
And soon, will the fight begin
For now though, I am alone
Again, I am a bit unlucky
But soon, will I be lucky!

Have you ever felt the hunger deep inside?
The monster with its insatiable cravings,
The claws that promise to tear you apart
That beast that calls itself inspiration,
The terror that says it is drive to create

Have you seen the ghost that lingers
Behind blue-tinted window-panes, in the breath
Of white vapor on a snowy day? Have you seen
‘It’, it that lives in heartbreak and mines it
For sepia-tinted photographs and
Confusing poems?

I’ve seen it on sunny days, in the way warmth
Lights me up inside - though even more than that,
It’s the memory-hued colors of California afternoons
It’s the way those colors look on print, even though
I can’t ever capture its feeling

And that’s what it is, isn’t it
The reach to put the unexplainable into words,
The unimaginable into pictures
The pain of it into being

Every Morning,when I rise, I do make sure
there’s nothing in my mind
nothing in my body
and nothing in my soul
as if I am a bottomless whole
as if I am a fresh born baby

Then I make sure,whatever work I am going to do
In the day
Will improve my mind,body or soul or
Somebody’s other body, mind or soul
And if my work is neither doing anything I said above
Then I am a useless monster just passing my time for sure

And when I have done the improvement work
Then every night, when I sleep
I feel mind like heaven
Feel my soul dancing
Feel my body energetic

And  if I have done no improvement work
Then I feel no difference between
Rising and sleeping.
I was a bottomless whole and still
Have achieved no goal.

Now you decide o people!!
Whether you want difference in your rise and sleep
Or you just want similarity
And remaining at the bottom of heap.

Choice is yours o people!!
Options are mine
I suggest you  to chose the improvement option
As it will take you to the cloud nine.

And then every morning, when I rise.
I do make sure……
I do make sure……

I open my ribs.  
peeling back the sinews and  
capillaries with precision.  
The crack of spreading bones,  
my chambered apparatus laid  
delicately on the table.  
  
My implement extracts its pound
onto the slab with intention,  
pulled and pressed till it's paper  
thin and bled out. Soulspeak scrawled  
in the crackling veins of my parchment.  
  
I put my machinations on display  
for onlookers, merchants  
and collectors  
but none seem to gather any interest.  
Skinpull another page  
but nothing sells  
or charms or foments.  

I pack my wares and  
toss them onto the pile of  
my dried out corpse scattered  
on the floor.  
Failure.  
Another procedure.  
Relent, repeat, cut deeper.  
And hope to find a reader.

Whenever I read your voice  
Draped across the tree-tops  
In misty strings and fog  
its ships sailing.  
  
Wind-whipped sails ripple,  
Wave-wake slaps along salt-worn planks,  
The smell of ropes and rigging.  
  
The feeling of open skies  
And unfathomed depths—  
Swirled green, turquoise, black  
Sea dragons and sailors,  
Treasures, charts, and pirates.  

You skip so easily along the tips  
And tops of the world.  

Horses run across water.  
Wars and lovers both rage  
As the ground shifts,  
Tides bulge and bow, ripping at the shore,  
Tectonic plates slip and crumple  
Shaking the world's foundation.  
It revolves in orbit,  
Balanced on the tip of your tongue.  
  
I am cross-legged,  
Listening to the way the world is  
Watching birds cut the sky  
Bleeding onto the clouds  
Listening to the creak of your mast  
With envy.

Why is it the dark thoughts,  
the shadows that hang at the edges of my mind  
that so easily creep out and stain the page?

Though love and joy may be found  
they never seem to draw my heart out into words.  
At least, not in the same way.  

It is regret and misery,  
longing and melancholy  
that moves my hand to compose

The introspections of my afflictions
what could have been or would have been,  
if only…  
if only.  

Perhaps it frees me in some way  
to trap these long lost deliberations with ink.  
With a time and date scribbled down on paper.  
To bother me no more…  
or perhaps, to bother me all the more  

I weigh the merits on my scale.  
To stand firmly on the shore  
or dip my toes into the water  

To let myself sink into that dark place  
to retrieve some trinket from the depths of my soul.  
All the while keeping my head above the waves.  
But what if I tire of treading  
or the weight of love and sorrow pressed together proves too much  
sinking me down below the air  

If I open this door  
what if no one can shut it

You are not a product,
nor is your work.
If you are to be consumed,
let it be by your own hunger
to be who you are.

The soul’s inaction
is the price we pay
for failing to nourish
our own blooming —
even beneath sunlight,
seeds remain,
never a garden.