on days unknown,
you wished you were the poem,
not the poet.
the story, not the writer,
the art, not the painter,
the creation and not the creator.
as beautiful as it could be to articulate,
to fabricate, to bring to life,
you wished the pen would run out of ink, not because you wrote that much,
but because,
the pieces of paper on which the ink ceased to live, were too calm to capture the charm of your boundless chaos.
