We write on immaculate paper,
But our hands are smirched from agony,
We don't just endure every feeling,
But scribble out minds out,
Because every word for us is not just a mix of letters,
It's a blend of emotions,
We don't cry,
But our verses have tears in it,
We don't know how to say it aloud,
But what we do know is to make you feel,
We make things immortal in our poems,
It just happens unknowingly,
We stain the paper with our thoughts,
Scarring it of words that define our own scars,
The pen we write with is just a pen for others,
It's a magic wand for us,
We can create as well as destroy,
Our rhythmic words take you to a different world,
Our world,
A world where mistakes don't count,
Rather are turned into aesthetic flaws,
Because when we write,
We own it,
Nobody in this world,
Can take away our world,
It might look mere words on paper to you,
But for us it's pearls studded in the night sky,
It's a blooming flower in winters,
And this is what makes a writer,
Falling in love with imperfections.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryIf you're the one who's tired of trying, If you're the one who's had it enough, You might like my work
