Trapdoors

Trap doors everywhere,
One wrong step
Abysmal despair.

Climbing up the stairs
Look behind
No where to go; vertigo.

Warm hands reaching out,
Skeletons of the past,
Pulling you down.

Clear water springs in here,
Mirages they are,
They disappear.

Kind soul,
Arms spread wide.
Only to choke you,
In the dead of the night.

The Typewriter

She sits with panache,
looking out the window.
The sunlight peeping in,
through veins in the sky
Crossed legged, in a snug sweater
and coffee in hand,
she blows over the cup.
A lonely typewriter sits on the rosewood table
the scent of antiquity attached to it.
It longs for fingers to run over the keys,
to let flow the black ink,
to tell stories.

She steals a glance at it,
"Come to me, Come,
Write something. Write yourself."

She hides behind her commercialized coffee mug,
with the standard silly coffee table slogans scrawled over it.
"But I can't think of anything to write.
I'm running dry, dry, dry.
I feel empty."

She looks over at the typewriter again,
that old pal, waiting patiently.
"Write about the emptiness.", it whispers.
She walks over, cautiously
Like a curious infant
at the sight of something wondrous.
Gingerly sitting on the chair,
She runs her hand over the keys.
She writes.
No pause.
No interval.
She wrote.
Her dog resting at her feet.
Calm and quiet at the knowledge,
his master is revitalized.
She takes out the finished paper and smells the ink.
"I love you grandmama"
She looks at the typewriter and says, teary eyed.

Note: Writers always have had a seemingly eternal love affair with Typewriters,for some strange yet comforting reason.

Imbroglio

Where have all those days gone?

When we wove blankets of dreams

and slept in them,

dreaming of only happiness and

chewing gum.

Where is it lost?
maybe in all those years of mundane living,

where all we heard was lies

to evil we were unwary,

evolving from diamonds

to people with dark hearts

but a countenance placid. 

Placed in this imbroglio

closed in by walls of structure,

those bubbles of dreams

pricked by the pin of doubt,

they ruptured.

Where did we lose ourselves?

maybe in those numerous streets we walked,

with dark alleys on one side

and bright lights on the other,

where survival stripped us naked

of our dreams

and all we had left were

trench coats and bad decisions.

Verse First ~ Half & Half

The camera sits in his hand,

as it shuts its eye on the wonders

that surround his vicinity

There stands the girl,

standing there like a work of art

it shuts its eye on the beauty

There stands the photographer

looking at her picture wondering

when he'll catch her sight again.

The Storyteller Hearth

Like I said before, I write poetry Hahahha :D
 So here's one of the poems I've written -

The Storyteller Hearth
As I sit on the rug,
in front of the hearth,
on a bitter cold winter winter evening,
I see the warm lively fire,
crackling and sparkling,
singing its own music,
and in those dancing flames,
I see figures,
from my memories,
putting up a live show in the flames,
like marionettes,
family and friends,
sadness and death,
smiles and whispers,
a moment spent with a close one,
secrets whispered,
but soon everything fades away,
and outside the moon is shining bright,
I lay down in my bed again,
as the stars whisper good night,
more stories to tell,
more moments to spend,
with the storyteller hearth.