I am a writer. A writer with a faulty wing,
Soaring in the deepest enchanted parts of
The clouds, is something I have done,
Where their secrets lay, sashayed, and
Hidden, far from the reach of a human’s wish.
I have trespassed where angels and their
Immortality reign, picked up the specs of
gold, shed by their wings, and kept them
As a souvenir. I have witnessed and dined
With the beautiful souls, a comfort zone it
Was, but still, I was meant for more.
Drinking from the galactic springs, is the
Only way I know how to quench my thirst.
I have built a constellation with the stars
And I have heard you whispering into each
Other’s breathes, of how amazing we looked.
I have shelved books of endless wishes,
In the moon’s library, wishes you have
Made each and every day, and night.
I have sailed with the shooting stars, battled
Gravity, and I have been called not the
Pirate of the Caribbean, but the Captain
Of the Stars.
I have been arrested in the rain’s jail
But still, walked out, with lightning
And thunder in my pocket.
To hell? You kidding me? Yes I have been
There, bored the devil out of his wits. I
Must admit, I have famously known fire
To lit a cigar, placed my feet upon his many
Thought he was the devil, but I had him
Retract from those thoughts. He Is well
aware, that I am a match he cannot match
Up to, not even an inch.
I have hawked ice in his most dreaded
chambers, like selling candy to yearning
Kids. Siphoned the last drop of immorality from his
cup, licked it darn clean, making him wish
He had remained a good loyal angel.
I have swallowed whole, the darkness
Did not need to use a fork, what for?
My jaws and well sharpened nails ripped
It apart, searching for its innermost
nightmares, turned out it carries no
authenticity actually fearing its own self,
more than you would.
I have invaded the world of the dead
Scavaging whatever little they have with
No mercy, dragged it on a rusted chain,
using them as a ladder, to the earth’s
I have connived and conspired with the
universe, to turn back the hand of time,
tie fate up, and destiny by its neck, to
prevent them from mating on my watch.
For poetry has had me heal, the wounds
Inflicted by reason, the only tool I have as
my state of art machinery. Enabled me to
be villain in a story that needs to be told,
a play that needs to be played, in my every own theatre.
Has cooled me down even when
Novocaine, could not do so, to relax my
throbbing ideas that seemed to collide
fatally in my head.
Has remained loyal where everything and
Everyone was ephemeral. Its what makes
up to balance my faulty wing, keep me
afloat, hold me into place.
For I am a writer, with a faulty wing.