Poem : Just for the love of writing

Poem : Just for the love of writing

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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.

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