When real life is your sleep paralysis

You canʼt speak or breath

But poetry is the only emotion

That can make you sing

It is the song you hear, in your deafness

No longer fearing being reckless

Your loud voice in mute

When Truth is a hard pill to swallow

So I hope I find the words to pray poetries

So I can allow emotions to unravel

I write poems to time travel

That if I write poetry, I might forgive myself

I might inspire myself

That thereʼs a lot of color in life,

and I might remind myself

It is the painting you hang inside you

Life is the color

Life is the source

It allowed you to exist discovering its limitations

Then discovering poetry breaks those barriers

So thereʼs more to life

The bridge that only a few knows about

The garden, everywhere

Thereʼs more to my prayers

Like sweet aroma of incense

We send it up

She is Foxtrot

She used to be a Servant to her mind

She would compose wonderful art

But there was something lacking in everything

She does.

Her heart was never present when she composed

It had shown. Critics would praise her for her visual

And insult her for her lack of emotion

After mentally beating herself up

She experienced something she thought

She would never feel again.

Warmth. Her cold frigid heart was beginning

To thaw. It’s overwhelming and powerful.

So she composes what she feels.

She scribbles out the pain that has invaded her heart

For so long.

Her hand cramps as her soul regurgitate all of her

Anger, her hurt, her remorse and her love on paper.

Her finger ignites passion as she blends her symphony

Together.

Blood replaces ink as she finishes her tenth page

Of her Inner Nature.

The ecstasy that ruptures through her writing

Is what causes her heart to beat heavily against her

Bosom.

She weeps as she ends her fantastic masterpiece.

She writes for her. She writes for those whose voices

That which cannot speak.

The meaning of being a composer, a writer

To her is an Oasis.

On top of her Ivory Tower she rules.

She is Foxtrot

Foxtrot will always be her own Master

Of her Soul and her Heart.

With overwhelming feelings and no one to tell, writing is the only way to go. It's like a wind has blown away all the burden, for sometimes not being able to express myself is the most pressurising of all. My soul would not have been at rest; my mind would have been in chaos, constantly in deep thoughts. No beautiful sights, sounds, smells... will be able to bring myself out from reverie. I would have lost the time spent in the present, because do you not agree that today is a gift? Daydreamers may have their beauty, but it is only so when one dreams of good things, and barely on the hard truths of this world, that it is a blessing.

The best things in life are free,

But you can give them to the ...

Nah! Just kidding.

But not really.

But, kind of.

To be honest, I do approach writing in a professional manner: Turn up, do my best, push through blocks, learn, set deadlines etc.

Like now - I have approximately twenty minutes left of my lunch break and I will press that 'publish' button before I rip myself away from this world and submerge myself back into the realm of financial accounts and income tax returns.

Inspiration knows I'll be here.

It knows I will be true to my word.

So it turns up and is comfortable enough to speak.

Comfortable enough to explore what's inside.

Explore what I should have said...

how she should have acted...

what they really feel...

what I believe...

what does genuine wholeness look like?...

life as it may yet be known...

Comfortable enough to give wings to irrepressible hope.

At least I hope it does.

I feel the energy flow through my fingertips

the feeling of love and pain in one emotion

the joy of the words flowing off my lips

like waves in the ocean

the good and the bad

the full and the empty

the funny and sad

the lifeless and the zesty

when the ink flows through your veins

your mind and heart speak in unison

you can let go of you pains

see the beauty from within

Writing is like bleeding but less melodramatic.

Less messy, too.

I can feel it at my fingertips, all the words that don't quite fit in my mouth. I stumble and fumbled and pop and I hope it isn't just me. If this was the beginning of a book I'll never write, it would be about a girl with words bouncing around in her head. Like I swallowed a beehive.

I've got this itch at the base of my ribs. Maybe I should open my mouth and let those words buzz about in the air.

We'd just end up getting stung.

My most spoken words: "I read somewhere that..."

But does writing and reading dilute those raw truths or sharpen them?

That feels quite important to know. Reading is rather like looking through a paper veil, and, the better the words, the thinner the veil into the colorful world beyond. Is the truth better with or without the veil?

Or maybe this isn't even worth thinking about, and I'm just crazy. As a kid, I believed that if I thought hard enough, I could make things happen. Superstition, I guess. Eyes screwed shut, whispering meaningless nothings to make my favorite episode play on the scratchy TV with antennas. Sitting on the carpet watching dust particles in the air. Just think hard enough to make them drift in circles. Focus on the ball and make it roll. Throw the plastic coin and make it chocolate. Talk to the bird and make it coo. Concentrate.

But thoughts don't have any power. They don't do anything but take up space and gather dust on the bookshelf. Got to blow off the cover. Open my mouth.

Uncap my pen.

I have a favorite pen I managed to keep all semester. Black ink. Flows beautifully and makes my handwriting look halfway alright.

How ironic. A writer and an artist with embarrassingly filthy handwriting. Can't even blame it on my being left handed because my brother isn't, and he's just as bad.

But I digress.

While an eloquent speaker may lay a spell on the audience, it is the writer who will lay an enchantment on generations upon generations. Writing and speaking are at least equal with this in mind.

So maybe it doesn't matter if I don't speak like I wish I could.

Because I can write.

And that is more than enough.

it's picking at the cracks inside

-using your fingernails-

until a single drop seeps out

smears on your fingertips

and sings

In my mourning,

You are a pen stroke away.

I channel your energy

And let the clock tick.

In my art,

I am drawn closer

To your amber eyes

And sleeping lids.

In my stories,

I am soothed by words

Only my imagination could pick.

In my writing,

Your smile is forever,

Your kiss is a word’s wish.

And in the future,

There is a life beyond us

And more than a dismal wind exists.

In the stroke of my pen,

I know

I am stronger.

I am stronger than this.