Rustic Lines

dreams, life, memories, Poetry

I. There’s this recurring dream

One of nomadic simplicity

I spend time in turns

How free, how free, how free


Writers Dilemma

poem, Poetry, writers-block

Crumbled up papers
Now turn into waste
Words lost throughout time
And it’s the pen i can’t face

I scratch away at my head
For some ideas to scrape 
One or two fall out
Only to get replaced

I think most other work 
Is always on key
I take a look at mine
Self-doubt mocks me

They may say “well done”
But deep inside i know
That for one reason or the other
I can’t let this other-side be shown