Writing Makes Me Whole
In the long stretch of my fecund mind’s strand,
I gather my muse’s scattered pieces.
I use the pen, like pincer in my hand
To pick and write bits that form my thesis.
Fragment of thoughts, like seashells in the sand.
Meaningless words, worthless lines, homeless heart.
They are naught but seeds in a barren land.
They don’t even rhyme, but that’s where I start.
I write to capture these specks on paper,
For words slip my mind like grains to my palms.
‘Tis my existence that words decipher,
And from my illusions, I coin my psalms.
I’ve learned by writing: Life’s rife with chances.
There are new frontiers that I could explore.
I’ll move forth to arrive at distances.
I know a little so I wanted more.
But like the waves that return to the shores,
My odes, too, hope to touch your heart and soul.
I’m like a child in search for his treasures
‘Tis the readers’ hearts that will make me whole.