Check Out This Post… "English Culture ".
Check out this post… "English Culture ".
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Check out this post… "Do You Know Graham Greene? ".
“I have no talent, it’s just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.” — Graham Greene
I miss everything about Graham Greene, love him so much... His writing about 500 words per day is so sort of bizarre.
The Writer's Vow
Ink stains fingers, pages fray, yet still, they struggle through.
Morning light creeps past the blinds, a pale and fleeting glow,
Coffee cold, ideas thin, but on the words must flow.
Each letter drips with restless doubt, each sentence feels contrived,
Plots unravel, characters shout, but none feel quite alive.
The cursor blinks, a steady pulse—a metronome of dread,
Marking time in silent taunts within the writer’s head.
But habit binds with iron threads, forged in sleepless nights,
Discipline, their bitter bread, consumed beneath dim lights.
The muse is fickle, fleeting fast, like shadows on the wall,
Yet duty grips them to the last, though passion dares to stall.
Afternoon fades, the word count grows, though hollow feels the gain,
For not all seeds the writer sows will bloom without the rain.
But still, they press with weary hand, through paragraphs and prose,
Chasing meaning, bold and grand, in lines nobody knows.
And when the final word is penned, the day’s great battle won,
They close the page, their thoughts unspun, though restless minds aren’t done.
For in the silence, whispers start—new tales begin to play.
Punk FRIDAY
You all know Maya Angelou?
“Forgive yourself for not knowing what you didn’t know before you learned it.”
— Maya Angelou
Poem as usual
The Lonely Traveler
Upon the road where shadows creep,
And silent winds their secrets keep,
A traveler walks with weary stride,
No friend beside, no soul to guide.
His cloak is worn, his boots are torn,
By countless paths and nights forlorn.
A faded map clutched in his hand,
A whisper lost in foreign land.
The stars above, his distant kin,
Flicker cold with light worn thin.
The moon, a watcher pale and high,
A solemn eye in an empty sky.
Through valleys deep and mountains stark,
Past rivers black and forests dark,
He treads where echoes dare not stay,
For silence knows him well each day.
His heart, a compass cracked and flawed,
Points not to gold, nor fame, nor God.
But to a place he cannot name,
A ghostly thought, a fleeting flame.
Villages blur in fleeting glance,
Faces fade in brief romance,
Words exchanged like brittle glass—
Fragile truths that never last.
Taverns filled with laughter’s roar,
Yet none to greet him at the door.
A stranger's smile, a fleeting grace,
Gone before it finds its place.
Storms may howl and tempests rise,
But none can match the storm inside.
His solitude, a cloak unseen,
Stitched with threads of might-have-been.
Footsteps echo, sharp and clear,
Markers of a soul sincere,
But none reply, no voice returns—
Just hollow roads and lessons learned.
What drives him on, what keeps him whole?
Not hearth, nor home, nor whispered goal.
Perhaps the ache, the endless roam,
Is both his burden and his home.
For in the vast, uncharted space,
Where paths diverge without a trace,
A lonely traveler seeks no end—
Only the road, his oldest friend.
And though his shadow walks alone,
It stretches wide, a kingdom grown
From every step, from every scar,
A testament to all he’s far.
So let him wander, let him stray,
Across the dusk, beyond the day.
For in his heart, the road runs deep,
A tale untold, a vow to keep.
And when the stars forget to shine,
And time dissolves the path's design,
His story, woven in the dust,
Will speak of roads, of dreams, of trust.
Not in the finding, but the quest—
A lonely heart that never rests.
