blotted pen

i use grief as my ink,

now I got abundant ink

and my pen is ruined.

the excess ink made my pen blot.

the blotted pen irreparably 

ruined the pages of my book.

rumi once said, “where there is ruin, 

there is hope for a treasure.” 

i wish I could ask him if it also

included these messed up pages. 

i sincerely hope it does.

insomnia

lately, my night blurs into day

and hardly can I tell one from the other.

sleep? It barely ever comes by my abode.

and when it does, 

it hangs around the door briefly 

just like the mailman, it never comes in.

mind travel

My legs hurt from bearing these weights in constant travel but my mind is not yet at peace, it still hasn’t found home.

My fearful heart,

When will you learn:

that it’s okay to start scared…

that no guru started out a guru…

that it’s okay to start small, make 

mistakes, fall and learn from them…

that being unsure, experimenting and

failing is a part of the learning process…

Learn, my heart, never to be scared to put

yourself out there, try new things, experiment

your ideas, fail, fall but never remain on the floor…

My restless heart,

When will you learn that every man is:

writing his own story…

a bearer of his own cross…

walking in his own time zone…

writing his story on how he bore his

cross with the time he has to stay here…

Learn, my heart, that no man should be an

an extra weight to another, seeing that every

man has his own weight to bear and story to write…