Why Do I Write?
When I was in school, my articles were hardly selected for the college magazine. The highest I scored on my essays was only 16 out of 30. My English teacher thought all my answers in exams were next to average. Now that is not great…and here I had plans of having a book to my name some day. I often thought why did I want to write? I didn’t know then…I don’t know now…
I never had a broken heart,
A gruesome adventure or a struggling start
Then why play Shakespeare’s part
Did I really think I was a world apart!!!
I don’t even have a recurring dream,
No haunted houses, adorning a mysterious theme.
My ancestors – nowhere in the writing stream!
And YET, I aspire to walk in the Booker’s realm.
Maybe… I am just curious,
I think too much, just furious!
Sleeping it off would be injurious,
So I play a writer – an act so spurious!
Maybe… I thought I knew too much!
About people, places and psychological crutch
And how society needs to loosen its clutch…
Thus, my duty was to lend the world – my golden touch.
Maybe…I dreamt of a never land
Where with no burdens, one may stand
He may play his trumpet, have his band,
And I had to unveil this world, so grand.
Maybe…Creativity was in my soul
My imagination wanted a vent, wanted a hole
I didn’t want to kill the story, so to let it roll
I was lead to the sacred goal.
Or maybe… it was just easier to write,
To freely fly my philosophical kite,
Dictate actions with a puppeteer’s might
Or simply lend God some ideas in black and white!