Writing
Why do I write
The things I do?
Pick up a pen
And paper too,
Put down my thoughts
Flitting like birds
Across my brain,
It seems absurd
To want to write –
To let it all out,
To watch my work
Leave me in doubt
As to whether I could
Have written it all,
These strings of words
In the dirty scrawl
Saying things
I never knew I thought,
Painting a picture
In ink and blot.
Telling a story,
Recounting a tale,
Laughter and tears
So strong, so frail.
Everything done,
Yet I don’t know
Why I write,
Let my feelings flow.
It is not for wealth,
For then I would sell
For as much as I could
These stories I tell.
But then, I think,
Its surely not fame:
I am content if
No one knows my name.
Is it what some
Awful people call
“Aesthetic exercise”?
Oh no, not at all…
I’m not trying to help
Woman, child or man,
And I’m not writing
Just because I can.
But I think I can cast
Some much needed light-
I think the answer is
That I love to write.
To feel my thoughts
Forming a line,
Interpreting emotions
So hard to define,
Gives me assurance
That I can narrate,
Invent and concoct,
Compose and create,
A story that gives
Me an identity,
That story is special
For it defines me.
Copyright © Priyanka Kumar | Year Posted 2005
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