My scribbling history
Could be traced back to times
Older than my teenage.
I remember an instance
When my grandfather
Asked me what it was
Picking up a piece of poem
That lay on the floor near me.
I was nine, an age
When I couldn’t really
Express what it was.
‘I wrote it’
Was my reply.
‘Is that from your book?’
He asked in the same tone.
‘No. I wrote it.’
Did so I reply.
He had a smile
As he took my palms
And made me hold it tight,
And reminded in a note
So soft yet strong,
Not to let it fly or lie
As random as the many bits
Those were on the floor
For I had a flare to write,
A gift from god
That not many had
But many wished they had .
I liked his words
And kept my scribbles safe
Though I knew not what it meant.
This was my first inspiration
To pen all the more,
To express my thoughts,
In times of joy and despair alike.
My pen expressed
In rhymes and rhythms
The sights I saw
The moments I lived
The hearts I loved
The joys I felt
And the tears I hid.
It was never my concern
If my lines were read.
Nor did it ever cross my mind
If my lines were classy.
What mattered most
Was that I could pen
The expressions of my heart.
I have no claim as a writer
But ever happy am I
As I see my pen glide
Across the white landscape
Of my notebook
Bringing out verses
Born out of thoughts
That lies so deep within me
That even I am unaware of.
I love to write
Just for the joy of writing
To peek into a deeper part of mine
And retrace my unspoken thoughts
The way they really are
Without any fringe of ego
And fear of remorse.
Which was why
I love to write
Just for the love of writing.
