How Is It To Write?

Blackened and hardened and faded feet and hands and minds. Because that is how success stories are made. *** Blackened feet With no mom to scrub them clean when I get back Blackened feet With no friends to share why they are that black Blackened feet With no earth beneath them to claim of my own Blackened feet With no warm shelter for them I'd call a home Blackened feet With my feetprint slowly waning through the dirt Blackened feet With my wounds and scars that do no longer hurt Blackened feet With the skin around them feeling as if it's not mine Blackened feet With really nothing about me that makes them divine

Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right. — The Hate You Give *** Hope and happiness. Some say they come together, some say they don't. I don't believe in getting into that debate, so I made up a theory on my own. I'd say they are never completely there, just enough to try for them, but never enough to grasp. The most you can get is a few touches here and there, the least is being just a few feet away. Never too far, never invisible. Always there, capturing and preaching the essence of life. No matter hard we try, we can never go on for more than a few moments of pure happiness. To all who think of themselves of being soaked in happiness all the time, either you make false claims, or simply settle down on watching that happiness and hope orb float in front of you, never really trying to get there. That is how one of my friends introduced me to the concept of Imposter Syndrome. When you've had that little ...

He's not a boy anymore. But that doesn't mean he's a man. — Marcos from The Inexplicable Logic Of My Life by Benjamin Alire Saenz *** Those are frightening days when you hear About the strongest people And their biggest fear They say to me they fear no one, but I know Fears filling in their veins They'd never show Discovered a precious diary, yesterday night Kept disguised, without a name Slyly, just out of sight It had white sparkling pages, so new As if I picked it right after They threw Had a say about his ugly teenage years Talked of face zits, hairstyles and flab Teenage affairs and peers And of being led into silence, willful and astray Burying, layering, and again The urge to disobey The beauty of silence is it's ability to adapt Into crowds and lonely corners For having you dead trapped He made a false pledge to resist, to be strong I knew he'd never be able to Oh boyman, I was wrong The words vowed of more suffering and pain More fight this time perhaps...

The essence of love, of strength, of courage, of life. Seeping out from women. *** As I felt your artful fingers walking up my chest I heard them sing, "Howdy do, life's brief guest?" And I remembered you; my mind filling in again Memories, happier ones, one with a blood stain That time of the day when Eve and Nyx say hello The day when began your monthly menstrual flow I knew right, though you never bothered to tell me I knew all your cravings; your tantrums, I could see See taking over you again, but here without a hint Going to be a good day, but in the end, it just didn't One ignorant boy, young and insensitive and dumb Pointed out to you; I still detest his crooked thumb And made fun, of you and of what made you a girl Of the fact why pistil is the innermost of the whorls Not for protection from the world who'll pluck it out But because not everyone deserves to see it sprout I thought the same, rather, I didn't think much at all I thought what you'll ...

Ashes are the most difficult part to handle. Even more than the loss, of course. *** I will tell you when it is time for me I hope you will be present there to see To see that I have lived up to my word Of recalling you till my existence blurred I want you there, but with no tears please Or at the deathbed, you will fail to appease Appease my soul, leaving my mortal body When I see last, you shouldn't be shoddy I want you happily smiling at my ashes For only you can see the joy that flashes Flashes out of my black ash left behind This is one job for which you're assigned

My father helped me with framing questions. "How is it to write?" I asked. He also helped me with answers. Here's one for him. Happy Father's Day. Late like always. ***** (1) Know that you're growing when His clothes start to fit you great Know that you're growing when Love for him comes with hate Know that you're growing when Life throws at you some haunts Know that you're growing when All of that's solved by those taunts Know that as a child you never really grew His laughter used to make everything new (2) Know that you've grown when His clothes make you feel old Know that you've grown when All love and hate for him is sold Know that you've grown when You have problems, never to share Know that you've grown when About his taunts you stop to care Know that you've never grown all this while It's all a waste if you can't make him smile

 Difficult times create tough people. For the weak, it makes strong friends. To the weak me and my stronger friends  —  my fireplace calls. *** Very long long ago, once in what I'd call the olden times It was good; if you tried describing the life of mines When, over the crackling noise of the flames I could hear those jokes and loud exclaims But now my beloved fireplace sits free of wood I thought, I wished I would burn it alight if I could Come back, you all, again, if you want, not if you don't I might not be able to live forever, for real, I won't I wait for you all, to attend my life's epilogue Get our cherished desserts and a wooden log

To all the parents and grandparents. To their love. To the void they create. *** Many untouched things, the things we rarely pick One of those things is my father's old walking stick By the dusty brown windowsill, it stands stringed The stick has a friend, an annoying friend in wind Wind whistles by the numerous window openings Playing with the stick and fiddling with its strings The stick forbids the wind, tells not to disturb him "Don't trouble me, I can't talk to you before it's dim!" "Why?" The wind asked the stick, ever so playful "Seeing blossoms? Knitting mittens out from wool?" "Keep shush!" The stick barked haughtily at the wind But the naughty wind pestered the stick and grinned "What do you see? Why are you so focused? Why?" The staunchly stick didn't bother or even bat an eye "Don't you see, oh foolish wind, what I always see? I'm my owner's soul, I watch my kids grow up in glee."

The dust still comes. It still warns. Nobody listens. *** Dust came to me on one of the summer days Insisted, I must convey to you what she says She said she is accused for stuff she didn't do She pleads for her innocence, the fault is on you She settled herself on your ageing photoframe Because nobody took care, dust is not to blame She has been using your rocking chair to lay on Because its wood had cried in your loveless lawn She's found on things, for which you never cared Forgotten letters and countless thoughts unshared She has come to me today with a warning to issue She is already settling on me and next in line is you

For the losers. For all who thought they won but lost. For myself. *** There are three Fates, not only a single one But they don't stand for the ones who won Fates, the three of them, for the losers like me They snap me out of dreams and make me see Make me see, grief makes no sense to them That of me, a loser, the world shall condemn It's on me to stand to my fate, to write another  Because if that's not done, no one will bother Of course, except Fates themselves, no one will Their crinkly hands to the blood wrenched quill For writing me off the face of the world, for forever Because, no one cares about a loser, they do never

Apparently, the blog title doesn't make it very clear. I know. I speculated a lot upon the title, trying to come up with different sort of names, mixing and matching every single word possible. To no avail. Now my title stands as a combination of five not special words in a not so special order. But with a very different question. How is it to write? That's precisely what I aim to achieve through it. As someone calling whom a writer might be a disgrace, I start out this blog. I don't know much when it comes to literature. My experiences are a lot less diverse. But it only takes a few words and some bubbling emotions to come out on paper. So that's what I did. My blog doesn't have any rigid frameworks. What comes to it could be poems, short stories, life experiences and more. By me and helped by a few other people. It's going to be fun. Maybe not. Let's leave that part and get to writing. Happy writing, happy reading.