Advanced Rooster

The secret to being a great writer (I learned just the other day) is being constantly on the lookout for things to distract you. All great writers have been distracted by one thing or another. William Shakespeare was distracted by the absence of enough vocabulary, so he made up plenty of words. At the last count, Shakespeare had invented 1,700 words, which, believe it or not, were subsequently added to the English language. Shakespeare can be solely blamed for creating mediocre writers whose idea of good writing is using words no one has ever heard of. 

As a writer, being distracted by the need to create words is a massive waste of time. The Englishmen have since decided that there are already enough words in the English language. Besides, there are high chances that you are not a native speaker, and Englishmen do not take it kindly that you know their mother tongue better than they do. That’s why they force you to sit English proficiency tests when thousands of them cannot even distinguish there and there. Or your and you’re. 

Granted, you need simpler distractions. For instance, you could abuse drugs within your wage bracket. I must insist that these drugs should be legal or that you know how not to get caught. I have been arrested so many times because of this. If I weren’t so keen on doing things that do not involve writing, I wouldn’t have had a wonderfully rich experience of sharing a cell with criminals. I had always dismissed that single bucket that rules one of the four walls in a jail cell. It is disgusting. 

You could choose to travel. You could choose to gossip provided you are at peace with being the subject of gossip once you leave your gossip conglomerate. You could think about spending time thinking about starting a cult or a church. I have thought about starting a church, and I suggest you try too. It is not enriching but you will think about things that make people readily give their money to pastors. However, I will advise you not to go to church. The things that happen in the church are not as interesting as the things that people do before going to church to repent. As an aspiring writer, you do not need the latter. 

The thing about being a writer is that staring at a blank page trying to abduct words and force them to form an interesting story is a painstaking endeavor. That’s why very few people write, and even fewer are great writers. The rest who do not qualify as great writers end up being journalists. 

I have a new distraction. Well, this piece was all about this new distraction of mine. I am surprised that I could string this number of words when all I wanted to write about was that I joined Reddit the other day. I chose a name that I thought was funny. Advanced Rooster with four-digit numbers starting with six. If the numbers suffixed on my new avatar name represent the number of advanced roosters in the entire world, then there are more than six thousand of us. And that is not too comforting. 

THE END 

Happiness is Pointless

On a strangely familiar dawn, 
I experienced a sudden epiphany, 

Happiness is pointless 

they say happiness is a journey, 

they say so, putting me in unexplainable dilemma 

I am on a path headed nowhere, 

yet seems to always lead to the pub 

someone lied to me happiness is hidden in those bottles 

well, the bottles hoard happiness 

except it also has side effects, 

you can wake half-naked in a completely strange town 

or, even worse, unable to replenish happiness 

because happiness wears a cloak of pointlessness 

The Hitchhiker

I often find myself stranded, 

in a vast, expansive and desolate lands, 

all around me suddenly blooms despair, 

around me sprouts kaleidoscopic hopelessness 

I am all alone, blissfully lost in the murmurs,

that urge me take a plunge into the shallow 

pool of poor decisions  

and during these moments, I suddenly transform 

into a person they wouldn't ever recognize, 

I, too, don't recognise myself 

I am suddenly a hitchhiker

seeking lands reeking ominous thrills

where I'd revel under the ever secretive veil 

of anonymity 

I am a hitchhiker guided by consciousness alien to me 

I am thumbing up potential serial killers, 

out and about seeking cheap thrills, 

seeking objects to fulfill their sick 

and twisted obsessions 

In these desolate lands, 

I am also seeking cheap thrills, 

in an attempt to merge with nothingness 

and live invisibly in a world that has ever 

demanded unattainable perfection 

The Dreams You Dreamt For Me

I don't know how much you endured, 
I can only imagine, 
and I know my imaginations come short 

but I do try during my infrequent 

intolerable bouts of sobriety, 

to put myself in your big shoes, 

you wear the same size as mine

yet I dare not take a step in your shoes 

they smell of heroism, 

of sacrifices, 

of courage, 

-none of which I can claim for myself, 

often, in my solemn corner that 

reeks of surrender, and defeat 

I think about you in distant lands, 

foraging in foreign lands for a morsel, 

perhaps wondering whether it was all worth it 

you dreamt dreams for me 

but then I grew up and wanted dreams of my own 

they were blurry, 

and I sought clarity among strangers 

drinking away one dream at a time 

now I am merely a shell, 

haunted by pangs of my own ingratitude 

unfortunately, I became me, 

and I ceased being everything else 

I ceased being me in my selfish desire 

to become a stranger among you 

I became a stranger when I became me 

fortunately, I have no more excuses 

I hope to shed this terrible skin of failure, 

so that our paths can cross again 

and I, for the one more, rise 

and introduce myself one last time 

It Wasn't In Vain

there have been nights, 
when you wished sleep would kidnap you, 
and rescue you from the incessant battles, 
with mosquitoes
and the invisible wars inside your head 
Do not give up yet, 
it wasn't in vain 

there have been pains, 

that hurt beyond endurance, 

and each step felt like torture 

but you fought and live on

desperate for another day 

another try, 

for nothing was in pain 

on those days you feel like a failure 

dust yourself up and try one more time 

and another 

and one more time 

because nothing's in vain 

Surrender

in the dreamless sojourns
to world's beyond the horizon, 
the world within stirs with longings, 
as distant as the stars, 
yet still alluring like the impalpable stars 

the sojourns trace, 
a long and meandering path, 
which disappears in the distance, 
in its wake an insatiable void 
drunk with a thousand dreams  

in calm surrender 
gaze at the unlivable dreams 
that leave your heart derelict, 
abandoned in its own wishful thoughts, 
gaze at these dreams 
and dare dream similar dreams again  

It Can Be Tough

it can be tough, 
for words to tumble out 
of a writer's mind onto a blank page, 

and make sense beyond the writer's

petty obsession with mere words 

the right words sometimes 

get stuck in between writing 

and thinking about writing, 

and often, gleaming words, 

spring out of the mind, 

when it is impossible to write 

like when showring or eating 

or making out with a woman 

the writer does not like 

it can be tough, 

a writer's life, 

for one moment one is writing 

but once done, the void 

deepens 

as the next poem or story 

beckons