Poems

It’s taken me all of my time spending time doing nothing to realise I miss writing. I miss writing. It is like taking away the life support of someone in coma. Where coma is me being in a state of limbo deciding what to do to take care of boredom, and the life support being my habit of writing.

So, I have started writing again. It gives me the power to be myself and keep my readers interested about the stories I tell. What stories do I tell? Actually, I might never know when writing can only be a door to the world of knowledge. We’ll know, but we’ll also be aware of the story happening in the moment.

Does this make sense?

I don’t care if it makes any sense. Why does everything have to mean something? My fingers dance on the keyboard and I let the music be my words. Woman, I just love writing. Writing gives me the relief I have potentially never come across in life. I put my thoughts down here for the world to wonder and myself to mull over.

What makes sense if not this?

I sometimes think I am not honest when I write to you, my readers. A bunch, actually. To think about it, my thoughts are far beyond the numbers I can count for a moment. But, the ones to read them are only a handful. I get decent amount of readers to all of my posts. We are a tiny family now with nearly two hundred followers and only a fifty reading actively.

Sometimes seventeen people make sense together.

To this, I am grateful. To you, I owe my all. I don’t know how to thank using my words to you who read me. Who try to understand me. Who take time to waste their time on my words. But, friend, words are all I have. So, please take these from my side.

Words are all it might take.

Asshrey ’21

Is writing a powerful deed?

I can’t answer that. Because, if I do, I’ll sound like the million other writers who stress-fully make sure the one reading knows how powerful their words are. These words (after repeated confrontation) prove nothing but to be a meagre representation of my moment while writing them. With the disguise of memory dancing at the back of mind.

Your regular talk on a screen by someone else. That’s it.

Now, when I write these words about the powerful pleasantry in writing – I am partially a failure to honesty. The next moment I’ll publish this kindness. And, then another moment I won’t even know how good of a writer I am.

Even worse, I’ll just call myself a good writer.

When I do this, I am forgetting my articles on labelling someone. Someone who’s me is getting labelled as a hypocrite too when I call myself a good writer. Forgive me, reader, but these words are not meant to give you or me the powers of any kind.

Instead, they are meant to remain just as they are. If you accept them just as they are, there’s nothing more vivid to me than this imagination.

A Pair called Singleton

Zero on my screen
Maybe a one to your win
Shine on me clean
So, lies choose to win

Win will someone today
Mutter will your prey
Pray will Piqué
Wanting to stay

Shine on me clean
So, lies choose to win

Come Piqué, not here
We belong to the den
Washing the last sphere
Come will you when