There were days, I itched to be a writer.
Ample were those times,
but not what ensued.
With millions of stories dying and living,
indistinguishable and vaugue,
with no succint meaning to the ingenious fire,
you know how irksome to pen down a prose?
Those were the days,
creativity flung around in every breath,
when my slow steps, an affinity to my own scribbles,
pen was a sword of flair, inked in sea of thoughts.
Those were the nights,
with meanings withered after each cluster of thoughts,
conquering the levels above vague,
still mine was the story and every
laughs, and sighs, and cries in it.
Dawns followed were war-grounds,
of emotions and questioning of the garbage I wrote the day before.
Unreliable of what’s, and what-nots, and what-ifs to follow,
life was an extension of my own stories.
Stories have faded,
with ink drying up, erasing the euphoria which was praised,
and the hardships that was acknowledged,
my stories are less remembered, ever lesser cherished.
Hard it is, to be a writer.