For the Love of Writing


We thump our feet in anger
When fate swindles us.

We thump our knees, in anguish
When agony is absolved of beauty.

We thump our buttock cheeks
On seats listening to those,

Whose flirtation with glory, is a crown, that fits,
And a shoesize that gets bigger by the day.

We thump our palms, calling it applause,
When we witness a moment, when

We are no longer capable of
Hiding or concealing, that

Words are both powerful
In leverage, haunting in echo,

While being open ended
In meaning. We thump,

To show that we are human,
While there are some among us,

Who are more human, than
Others, they strip their hearts

On parchment, pages of a book,
Not for fame, only for a dream.

We thump pages of literacy,
How beautiful that,

There are aspects to life, better
Than earth-shattering sex. How sad that

We let books, succumb into
The sweet tooth of termites,

How we need to salvage
The onus of our gift,

Writing is no empirical science, it
Is an invisible hand, bigger than God,

Anne Frank to Shakespeare,
Puberty to tragedy

We are the ones, the muses protect,
The types, that unleash heresies,

The Robin Hoods of the status quo
The Buddhas of metaphor

The places we strip, to the places
We clothe, the questions we pose

Of a system, that has no room
For a different style of thinking.

We are the riddles and rebels of our time,
The lotus leaves on a pond,

The types that hear the applause,
And yet know, that the sound

Of paper, pressing against a page, is
The essence, that we draw upon,

How we have ten crumpled
A4 Papers, to one fitting page.

We lose more to a wastepaper bin,
Than to a publisher’s desk,

We are not the chosen kind, or today’s hero,
Our stories only know, the art of exoneration,

How Einstein’s chalk, was
Shakespeare’s ink and Rodin’s clay.

Jesus walked on water;
We let words, tiptoe on scroll.

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