To Kill a Writer

I draw daydreams devoid of grammar. Jumble memories with synonyms. Cook laughter with adjectives. Flirt with rhymings. Drool over oxymorons. My masterpiece is not just another crushed paper. Or left stale at the back of a hotel bill. Or a long text message killed slowly with backspace. It is not just another word document punctured with punctuations, pathetically clutching the clauses, with wasted verbs, privileged by pronouns. It is a canvas hidden with puzzles, masking the festering wounds, concealing a story written in haste and hurry. Its my medicine that I can't take for the disease I can't fake. Ma says I'm a dreamer. I smile slyly. She never know I wrote things for her. How her fingertips rubbing my scalp, Stifling my hair brings calm to my storms. How her laughter to my lamest jokes brings rainbow to my colorblind eyes! They say, writers are over thinkers who weaves drama connecting sunsets and deaths. I say YES! My naked words quivered with shame facing your pointy fingers. So I dressed them with strike offs, replacing them with meticulous metaphors. They were as genuine as my freckles. Also as shy as my face. Maybe, that's why I covered them with my hair of laced lies and butterflies. So never tell a writer that her poems are plain! she's not an upset stomach that throws up thesaurus. Never suggest a writer a new Instagram infected writing style! She'll take it. And while you smile She'll break it. A writer dance for the tune of phonetics. Plan a night out with personifications and never think twice to break up with your judgements building up a tall wall of ignorance which lets in only the legit critics. A writer stitches gore with similes, Iron it with ironies, Wears it with the pretense of happiness. But when you say - "It is beautiful" and walk away, You killed her with the blunt blade of cliché!