When the Ornament Shattered

It happened when the ornament shattered, broke into pieces all across the kitchen floor, my world broke along with it. Yet, I found, as I swept the floor, the pieces of my world were not going to be as easy to find as the shattered glass. My world was not to be found on that floor. It was lost, somewhere where I could not reach it. As soon as my world shattered, I felt no need to go and find it, no drive to make it to the future. It was like all the light of the world faded when the ornament shattered, lost in the vast universe, as if I had been selfishly hoarding it for myself. Now gone, I had nothing to hold on to and it didn’t matter for some reason. When the ornament shattered, so did my hope. I can no longer see a future. I can no longer see my past, but I can feel both. The immense joy and pain of memories now gone and memories waiting to happen, that I am unsure will ever happen. It was as if everything was sucked right out of me, and I could not find the motivation to continue.¬†


Poetry lately has not been coming to me as easily as writing for novels and for books, and for that reason, I have not posted anything as of late. I feel a bit of guilt associated with not posting and not writing these poems, but I am not trying to force the inspiration and the words to come. I write everyday, but somethings that I write are not to ever be read. Some are just completely terrible. Yet, that is the nature of writing. You write and you let your heart flow, and when the words stop you continue until you remove the bolder that plugs your stream from producing water. These writings are typically not meant for human eyes (except the writer of course). So please, do not think that I have abandoned writing. On the contrary, I am just learning how to destroy my boulders so that I may write better. 

Anyway, I hope that everyone has had a lovely Thanksgiving. ūüôā¬†

How do I tell you?

How do I tell you

that the wind no longer 

whispers underneath my wings

that the world below is slowly 

wandering through the slips 

in my fingers 

as I desperately try to close

my hands tight around 

that which keeps me here 

but to no avail-

I lose-

how do I tell you 

that my world is no longer 

a song that I used to sing 

radiating from my lips 

drunken from the depths of my heart 

that swoons the breath 

out of those that listen 

content on being born

but how do you sing, 

when you cannot breathe? 

how do I tell you 

that every morning 

I wake

gasping for breath 

struggling with some 

unknown force 

that I have no name for 

that causes me to shake and fear 

reminding me of who I am 

a misery that I do not 

want to remember. 

how do I tell you, 

you whose life is so serene 

and you, 

who does not understand 

because you have been through 

so much just to live 

how could I understand pain? 

It is nothing,

you say, 

just a passing phase, 

you’ll feel better in the morning.

but the morning comes, 

and the sun rises, 

and I cannot feel the wind. 



there is


not in this 



from gunshots



in our scarred faces 

sacred places- 

now taken 

and burnt

to ash-

where life began

and now


with no sun

to return too 




we are all equal-

in his eyes-


yet painful-

taking its time

or quickly coming-

hunted through 

the life we pretend 

to live-

all leading to 

one moment-

in which the cycle

begins again