You pen down all those demons
swirling inside your brain ,
anonymously scribble your dingy pain.
You spill out ink off your sinking heart,
You blot pages with your profound scars.
And, without anyone knowing you try to escape,
By giving your emotions a fictional name.
Quite easy it seems, right?
You spend nights struggling insomania,
Often writing long love letters(which are never sent) to people filled with paranomasia.
And I always wonder why under your blog’s fiction section you often confess,
your profound love and it’s deepest regrets?
While, at the same time the rest of us?
We often develop notions as though a writer has its own perks.
And you sigh knowing, regardless of however flattering and easy it may seem it’s tenacious.
Yet with all vehemence and determination,
You poetically provide
your pain as a platter
to serve us
a platform to heal
from all the shatter
You lurk your damping blues
behind the freshly cut greens,
only to help us bloom lillies.
You bleed ink from your veins,
to provide shelters to our pain.
under the dungeons of your pain.
Yet, you try
You try to help us bridle the same.