And so says a scribbler…

Called my heart for poetry
And soul for some rhyme
My tympanum craved to palpate
With a lyric as nonchalant as a wind chime.
Peered I into the kirkyard of emotions
To water the pips of words
To see the boughs of rhythm growing
And rejoice under the canopy of my orchards.
Caressing an unsullied sheet of paper
I blotted a point of ink
Marking the cradle of the lilting ocean
I was set about to sink.
But my wrist refused to move an inch
My mind thronged with fear
My heart throbbed like none other day
’twas a feeling so queer !
‘What am I writing for?
Who is going to read ?
Are my words that worthy
For somebody to pay heed?
Can they win me laurels
Or fill me with pride
That my words suffuse in people’s hearts
And act as their guide?
Can my blithe locutions make them smile
Or my woeful ones make them bleed?’
This dubiety about my rhetoric
Spread its malicious roots like a weed.
Loosened the grip on the pen
Forfeited I to fright
Slamming the door on that itch’s face
I began dodging to write.
Crumpling the immaculate sheets
I hurled them into the bin
I shut off from the world of vocables
To my utter chagrin.
Daily chores didn’t tarry much
Desolation had begun to choke
Draped in the uncanny robe of monotony
Mirth I couldn’t invoke.
A hollowness gnawed at me
I was a body sans soul
A mind plodding towards
Quite a murky goal.
Till one dingy day
When I could try no more
My skin sensed being etherized
And appeasement my soul did deplore .
Smoothening a creased paper
I sat down to pen
To heal my diseased being
And not to make others ken.
I wrote to transcend my limitations
Not to win a heart
Just to nullify my sorrows
And bludgeon them to depart.
I wrote and wrote for hours
Puking a hundred words
They bickered like the bubbly brook
And chuckled like the chirpy birds.
I found the coveted therapy
And believed I must write
To wing my emotions and set them free
To let them rejoice the respite.
I just scratched the edges of my heart
With a supple scraper
I didn’t intend to adorn or distort them
So just filmed it on the paper.
Neither did I rack my mind
For better phrases or such worries
Nor did I drop minutes
In search of literary jewelries.
I flowed with the tides
Of spontaneity and brevity
I wrote until my heart declared
An official state of tranquility.
I stopped writing for people
I started scribbling for me
To stoke my pusillanimous heart
And make it feel glee.
But people happened to read them out
And their hearts did tally
Tears did well up on my agonizing words
A grin did show up on the report of a doting ally.
And the ones which I wrote
To keep me going
They said it fueled their passion too
And forever kept them flowing.
Each time they cried
Or smiled on my poem
Medals jingled around my neck
Adding one more drop of aplomb.
I devoted my lines to people
As a panacea to set them free
But I no more aspired to write for them
I chose to write only for me
I only chose to write for me !!

2 thoughts on “And so says a scribbler…

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