Where is my inkpot?
For I have to write my heart out,
I’ve to shed the demons lurking on my head,
Oh let me find my quill,
But which one should I scribble till my veins feel my syllables rising,
The quill of sorrow,
Is almost withered,
For I’ve smeared a million pages with my words wound with worry,
And my flesh hurts, to even reminisce,
The winds with which what never went,
Why not the quill of hope?
Yeah, perfect!
But hope hurts half, had I healed, I’d have held it high!
So the last one I am made of,
The quill of joy,
It has specs of dust settled,
But it awaits patiently,
For the right moments after dusk,
And it shudders, as if pleading to pick it up,
To write, the eternal magic once more,
As if stars are attired amid autumns,
And syllables shed since stars shone sharpest,
So let’s write one for joy,
As if there isn’t any reason for it,
Just joy,
In the purest form of it.

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