Of The Writer

The cascades of ink splayed over the floor

Rustling paper, groaning windows.

The pirouette of the calendar as it lifts its chin up, mockingly.

And a dull brown table, except for some motivating dishes

Which sit upon it alluringly, but impatiently.

Ink whisked over yellowing paper

An exasperated shadow against the curtain

Silhouetted against both fancies and targets.

Now the kink the mouse, next, the gentle rub of the keyboard

Writing what, to whom, and why?

An archaic style, a cliched theme, a verbose manner

Pole-vaulting on mere morals- 'strong foundations.'

Too dangerous, success may run thin

There are no listeners, no readers, until the sweat

Has gallantly exhausted itself.

Reflected against an honest screen

Distracted by self, persuaded to leave

On the verge, tug of dreams, tug of new words

Staying on, leaving reflections bereaved.

But why? With no takers, no one who can

Read the thoughts in words that you deemed special.

No one can read minds- and dredge the furrows

Of doubt that shroud what you put on paper.

No one.

What of those who can't read your words

Who can't decipher their meaning

Yet you write to them, you feel for them

To what purpose? Simple jingles

Would seal the deal

Yet you write them your thoughts

In the words that fit them best.

You write from an intimate personal standpoint,

That anyone else only has a remote chance

Of understanding. And yet you do not stop

The ink flows, the fingers dance over the keys,

Whatever it be. So no one gets your little piece of art

It's inscrutable, incomprehensible.

Yet you write away the burdens

And the troves in your mind

Hoping to free it from them but knowing,

That they will now stay with you forever.

You write gibberish- waiting for scholars

To berate you. You invent outlandish things

And mystical people. Or you stick to brass tacks

And write a silly story for a three-year-old

That speaks pragmatism in every word.

Laughter engulfs you. People are amused

Most don't care. Yet you don't stop.

Now some are irate. Some exasperated

With your fascination for unknown words

Some fuming at your lack of simplicity

Many charging at you for the opposite.

When do you stop then, not to start ever again?

Let your words answer this question

Whether stacked on a bookshelf or in a tiny little notebook

Privy to some amazing things.

O Writer, you're one determined creature, aren't you?