The inspiration for this poem comes from my undying love for writing. Despite how people dislike and despise my habit of looking at everything through the lens of writing—or hate what I do—I continue to write. Someone asked a simple question some time back. Both the question and the answer to it had a profound impact on me, for it is when I addressed the question, I realized how much I love writing. The question was, Will you continue to write even if you never rewarded for it? And I replied in a ‘Yes.’
I stand by the mirror, Yet again; seeing a myriad Expressions on the blank face; Of documents that I left behind.
I stare void, yet again. Lost. Overwrought. I wish I could go back. Rewind.
I argue, yet again. Taking an umbrage Dare you disrespect my love Even in your mind.
I stand stupefied, Yet again; knowing that Cluelessness is temporary That I must face the grind.
For I soon will cherish The moment of realization. The encounter with words! It will be rapturous!
For yet again I plunge, Swim to explore and From deep within, bring ashore Thoughts. What a find!
Writing has been my primary field of interest for as long as I can remember. Yet it took me a few more years after my schooling—and a lot of unpromising, unyeilding struggles—to get to where I am.
Although, from here are visible the two contrasts: I can see the vignettes of writing that made me, and the gleam of writing that shall make me. To the tunes of this muse, I choose to dance. To the flow of this stream, I prefer to stay afloat, aboard the paper boat of my imagination.
When the dark sky of nothingness falls, I pluck thoughts out of the void, to fill my bucket of conversations. From the eyes that bleed emotions to the heart that speaks the truth; from the hands that embrace togetherness to the feet that stand firmly throughout this voyage; and from the nerves that pump passion to the sparks that enliven the mind countlessly, there is so much to express yet nothing to show.
When I am at my desk, I wish to not speak but interact, to not hear but listen. Writing is, after all, the last thing that I want to do first. Always. It is a conversation that I have with myself.
The mysteries and musings Called upon by the yearning one. That which once was an escape Is now a Source… Reveal before it, one by one.
The haunting shrieks of thoughts That cut off your retrieves That talk through your mental voice. Embrace them; You don’t have a choice.