#WritcoPoemPrompt102

She was simple,
minded her own business,
suffered enormous pain,
amidst the glory,

She was the scaffolding,
her brain was that art,
ready to be constructed newly,
her emotions filled it in parts,

The world was a trophy,
deciding her worth,
with temporal and digital validation,
but she continued to love,

The pen and the paper,
the mighty sword to create,
the words, her heart's whisper,
to bleed blue/black to reciprocate,

She gave herself the voice,
with time and patience,
others left to judge this novice,
donning no credibility or administration,

Because she found a way,
sinking deep in her mind to convey,
on the blank paper her story,
attracting crowd who felt that relief,

After decade of drought,
they finally had sought,
a writer with her heart hardened yet pure,
etching scribbles for farsighted audience like a folklore,
where the creator chiselled her pen and hand,
to embed core values and learn to comprehend,
the cycle of feelings,
the product of musings,
the hate against change,
the curse of clean slate,
which smeared in wonderment,
with the author's commandment,

The world was her realm,
your thoughts her tool,
for she was a seed that grew,
watered by your vehemence.


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© Nilakshi Garg