Midnight Talking

You lie awake at night, 

asking the same thing.
Is this right,
to feel everything?

 

The voices don’t cease,
as if they’re playing automatically.
It’s hard to feel bliss,
the voices saying, “Can’t you be kind to me?”

 

Feeling melancholy,
you tell yourself that it’s okay.
Is this where you should be?
To live helplessly everyday?

 

One voice whispered, “Hey, shouldn’t you be gone?”
You retorted, “Do you think so?”
And it replied, “Should I give you a reason?”
So you pondered, should you go?

 

The clock strikes half past one in the morning,
But you are restive as you lie.
You await for people’s awakening,
and look forward for midnight to die.

 

Until then, agony becomes your friend.
Death becomes your acquaintance.
Life becomes your enemy.
Yourself is what you pity —

 

Until midnight reaches its end.

 

 

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I can’t write right.

Sometimes I can’t write,

my mind’s being deceived.

Not sure if it’s right,

don’t know what to believe.

 

A blank piece of paper

stares intently back at me.

I can’t even bother

to write meaningfully.

 

It’s as if every inch

of creativity has been taken.

Maybe I just need a pinch,

or  a life-changing awaken.

 

Take me back

to those days,

when I don’t lack

the words to say.

 

A few drops of inspiration,

something to set the mood.

Using my imagination,

to write something good.

 

Perhaps, my talent is missing.

But, I can’t seem to discern why.

I used to long for writing,

letting every word go by.

 

I am thirsty to create anything

that will leave your literary soul

hanging, banging, jumping, craving.

Will I achieve my goal?