I wish I could remotely write as much as I was thinking,
Or feeling;
No, thinking!
If I did,
My sentences would remain fragmented,
With deprived vocabulary,
In haste to jump to a new line,
To pen down a new recurring thought.
By the way, which also, would stay unfinished!

There’ll be stances,
Of paper grazed with obstinate force of the nib.
Just like my soul,
Bearing scars from the ghosts of the past.
Phrases bereft of highs and lows,
In a race to reach the full stop.
New lines, new modifications, new mistakes.
Write, cross, cancel, rewrite!

Sometimes when I don’t like what I write,
I tear the piece apart,
Crumble it and aim it at the bin.
That’s the beauty of writing your own verse.
Rest assured, the imprints won’t follow from the last page,
Just in case, you decide to start afresh.
Much unlike your life,
And your story,
That has been written down by someone else.

But alas, you can’t write as much as you think,
Or feel.
Mostly think!
So you write, and edit, and re-write and re-edit,
Till a point, the vehement rawness gets lost in revisions and emendations.
Oh! But you do get a consolation;
It becomes bearable.
“Writing?” You ask.
“Life! But yeah, writing too!”

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