As the sun rises, my soul is set ablaze,
The gaze of the morning light,
The feel of the morning warmth, it’s a new day,
The birds two by two getting ready for the day,
The sweet chirps, the morning scent of dew,
Reminds me of the beauty of creation,
Motivation, self-realization, a new day, a new chapter,
It’s the dawn of great things, bound to happen, gradually,
Then rapidly, sending me to greater heights.
We often do write-ups, but fail to self-motivate,
Our hearts so big, our egos so smart, them before us,
Never us before them, as the child is born, crawls, tumbles and falls,
So is our poetic life, poetic justice hanging on a tight leash,
Hoping that every day would be better, better than the previous one,
The power of our dreams, we make people smile in countless ways,
There was a never a day, a day wasted, haunted by a lack of inspiration,
The harsh realities, of living in a cruel world, art is a luxury,
Governments on our necks, wordsmiths on a rampage.
Sometimes I sleep, see words making my light, even in the darkest of nights,
A poet never dies, he may be gone, forgotten, but someday,
A voice beckons, they find your words the perfect antidote,
To cure their mishaps, dagger-sharp, their hearts are troubled,
They find peace, not by warring, not in their wanting,
Words! They speak soul to soul, words!
As we fight to be noticed, let us all unite, for a remarkable cause.
The voice in the darkness is a light for the hopeless.
Life will never be easy, for the ignorant hype,
They say its dope, they say it good, but do they mean it?
Cursive? Brutal? Only poetry has the right,
To ridicule the mightiest, and escape without a fight,
Words are the fists, even the best boxers feel the pinch,
Without a hit, the heart is torn, we conquer the misdemeanours,
We trust in the vision, the melodrama, the passive,
Vivid imaginations, unimaginable conclusions,
The days are made, each day outdoing the past.
It’s a vast lane, like a lion’s mane remains sacred, so is a poet,
How many times did you ever explain yourself; to yourself?
It’s very hard, isn’t it? Blinded by the very clause,
That we let others speak, of what they see in us,
Not our words, not our poetry, the physique, the mannerisms,
But can they really describe how deep our words are?
Can they speak of our words, without mentioning our physique?
Oh! Yes, they can, but our names remain a mystery, they even quote you,
But discredit your name, your words in a stanza, your feelings on a Plata.
Calling all poets, calling all wordsmiths,
You are as great as your words, never falter,
Inspirational turmoil should never be a boil,
Use it, the pain in your words, that’s food for the soul,
Your words are a reflection of your soul to the world,
In bravado you rise, in pain, you win!
Writer, meeting Anna, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times and other books. A son of love, writing is my passion, being a wordsmith is what spices it all up.