.RHYTHM OF SOUL.

.WAS THAT MY PEN.

My pen is poised to pen a poem ,
To write a rhyme,
with subject unknown,
Will words waft upon white paper,
To craft a creation or a crazy filled caper ,
It keeps me busy in my bookish cage ,
Gliding and sliding away on the open page ,
It rests so quiet but no dumb ,
In between my fingers and my thumb .
Slowly a stanza starts to form ,
And then into a poem the words completely transform,
A mingling thinking mind massages and moulds ,
Then precipitates on paper as the poem unfolds,
My pen is an instrument of expression ,
My pen is my handy possession,
Playing with words in the garden of stories,
Pen has always been the Inquisitive tool for centuries,
As I sit to pen down my thoughts in gay ,
It smiles,
Cries,
With my soul in dismay,
The pain within me it carries inside ,
All the pains,
Regrets,
Laughter of all times,
As I open my eyes,
Holding my tear,
In this vast vicinity,
Me and my pen open up a war ,
Remember my fears, 
As i write 
Hate or yell ,
It's my pen who stands by side with words alarm ringing bells,
I don't put pen to paper expecting miracles,
With words,
Stanzas working daynight jobs in cuticles,
My pen uses its blood to rewrite the relics ,
Working with perseverance and emotion in disguise,
How much I turn to my pen as it is the only one ,
Who knows me deeply from within , beholding me in darkness with slittery hands when everyone is gone ,
It's my inky fountain within which there is a glowing globulus of fire ,
The more I strike the more it goes higher,
Silent warrior it is a wonderous sword,
Forever mightier than any King's sword.
Days did pass on with timeless limits within,
For me to understand the gradeur and spark in between,
That day marked upon for that hearty realisation,
Begun the journey of a writer of puslations...