Fiddling with a pen in hand.
The glasses,
Falling onto the very edge of the nose.
I, a writer, contemplated, wearily though,
Of how was I supposed to write?
I skidded through my old writings.
It felt as if I had dusted an old box of memories,
From up in the attic.
A place which had seen abandonment.
The rusting charm of amateurish benevolence of words.
Ah! Such were the sentences that I had once written.
Filled with knowledge and less of compassion.
It was true that I have become wiser,
From a person of only words to person I have acknowledged to be.
The childish enthusiasm had not been taken away.
It was hidden till my sense of purpose and my use of time,
Was woven into the tapestry of wisdom.
My hand on it's own accord, now moved.
The pen glided over the paper as a painter does with his brushes.
Scribbles, crosses and strings of words,
It was all there.
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Wisdom comes through experiences. Being a writer and an empathet, emotions seem to easily flow into poetry; anger being the most projected one. Do you think one attains wisdom too easily or one can easily be misled to believe to have wisdom?
YOU ARE READING
My Thoughts in Verses
شِعرMy thoughts in verses is a bunch of poems that I have written at various stages of my life. Whether for completion or for leisure, all of it has a bit of my crude essence. *The picture on the cover does not belong to me. I do not take any credits.
