NaNoWriMo

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In less than a week, NaNo begins.

I’m in a frenzy, tidying up things,

Cooking up ideas, scribbling them down

On stray bits of paper, with a constant frown.

I keep snarling at everyone,

I can’t seem to stop yelling

At every single person or thing

That comes within hearing.

I’m suddenly the wicked witch

Of no small renown,

Who chews heads off people and pets

To decorate her crown.

I’m going bersherk, really,

Trying to plan it all;

To write or not to write

Is the question to forestall.

I’m trying to multitask here;

Why doesn’t anybody understand?

I’m so torn between choices –

Poetry, horror stories or a novel grand.

Who can help me decide what to write?

Who’s going to bolster my courage?

Who’s going to save the world

When I go on a writing rampage?

This is certainly the best of times,

It’s also the worst of them,

For I’ll write through sleepless nights

As ideas continue to overwhelm.

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Darkness and Light

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I reached into my darkness

To give way to the light.

Every failing, every slight,

Each weakness and each fright

Helped me swim across the darkness

And glide back into the light.

I surrendered to the darkness,

I didn’t put up a fight;

Just so I could go down under

And rise again out of sight.

Every failure in my plight

I faced with a grim delight;

It helped me tap into my darkness

And rekindle my hidden light.

I’ll have my vengeance yet;

I’ve the will as well as the might,

For I’ve reached into my darkness

To give way to my light.

TRANSVESTITE

What lurks behind his eyes?

Seems to me like a woman’s pain –

The burden of carrying lifelong lies

Amid an urge to live again.

His eyes were once so full of life –

He had family, friends, a thousand dreams;

But now, in this time of strife,

Nobody seems to hear his screams.

So what if he’s a transvestite?

Why should it be so disgusting?

They seem so irked by his delight

And turn chiding eyes upon him.

Life’s been unbearable, of late –

They turn away from him in hate.

With an utterly unabashed lack of feeling,

They engage in petty mud-slinging.

No one tries to cool his sighs

Or cares enough to look into his eyes.

A long, lone path awaits him

Powdered with ashes of departed dreams.