A Writer

On the canvas of life, they sing lullabies adding color to a monochromic life,

He bleeds ink through his weapon mesmerizing each superficially in life's strife,

Oh! He takes an oath to change the portrait of society by his satirical words,

Yes, only real depictions arouse and sparkles from the womb of his poetry bird,

Merges his scattered blocks of imagination by turning it into a beautiful ode,

He is the one who can murmur the beads of a pearl even by walking on a confusing road,

The crescent moon can be used as imagery for describing a depressed soul,

A writer is the only person who can also design the feelings of a nightingale or an owl,

The constellation of the universe which appears casually scanning nothing rare,

But for a writer, they are the ones who sacrifice a lot and they are worth for a prayer,

The sky and the trees which appear normally to everyone's sight,

But for him, they are having the blankets and the cotton candies trait,

When the world seems normal for the human eye making it boring,

The writer's eye turns like a vulture scanning some metaphor worth knowing,

With the simple use of nouns and verbs, he creates a world within his own blue ink,

And his words chants some incarnations and then his thoughts get stiched,

The curse stares them persistently forcing their feelings to glow through their pen,

Their depression gets melted in a paper blessing them to revolve in a darkening den,

Yes, their words wrench out the hearts gifting memories of the past,

Their eternal words somewhere do not mark the end or last,

Feelings of his suppressed mind are spitted into couples and sonnets,

He too sings songs especially in the form of odes and ballads,

Incapable a writer is to display his innocent feelings to this entire universe,

So, he wears the attire of tanka, simile, and haiku printing pain in his every verse,

Expertise in turning the voices into penning unique couplets,

Gifts some black magic while he turns stories into rhyming alphabets,

A passion which is not gifted by any preacher but attained by one on their own,

I am a proud writer whose scribbles are granted even after his death as a loan.