Daily Prompts




Is it not enough

That my sphere is your home?

I cannot see my future because

Your towering skyscrapers block

My line of sight.

The air that I breathe

Once pure, now black

Sting my eyes.

If you wonder why the seas are rising,

It is because I have wept

Copious salty tears.

I am an old child of the sun

And I have much life left in me-yet

I can feel my pulse quicken.


First of many (?)


I’m horribly afraid to write. It’s almost a phobia. I really can’t get to the roots of this fear, but I realise writing is what I love, among other things, and no matter how great the fear, I must learn to tame it. If I can’t, then at least make peace with it. If there’s one thing I have realised, it’s that this is no easy process. Each word is a struggle, and to me, they either come all at once, like a deluge, or not at all. When it’s the downpour, I ditch the umbrella and enjoy getting wet (in reality though, I hate the rains). But when the words fail me, the paper and my mind are equally barren. Or more like the words are naked. And they’re hiding, afraid to come out. They might as well realise that my empty page is no Garden of Eden.

I hope someday I’ll write on paper with the same fluency as I speak poetry in my head. And maybe the wealth of creativity resides inside you and me, not outside in the paintings we see, the books we read or the music we hear. But within us. My third eye is open.