I am no poet
I am no writer
I am a scribblist of words,
Words, someday rhyme to a sentence,
Somedays meaningful, somedays ridiculous.
Some become abstract of a story yet to end
Somedays beginning to a cynical of grey climax.
It announces the bravery of a hero, somedays,
It cries to the ignominy of a boy clad in a saree .
It yearns for a lover, distant and colorful
It urges for the fantasies and lucid fallacies.
Somedays, it sings the song of wars and miseries and
Past and histories!
Here, they are an eclectic
Here, they are a narrative!
These scribbles are scattered anywhere,
You search,
Behind the books
Under the bookshelves.
Crumbled and hidden inside the trash cans.
Stories which are arrested by the ink,
Spills of water spread over,
Dark blueish in color, it crips the paper forever!
Somedays it comes into picture in a flash,
Teases you with a hint of redolent
So powerful, so mysterious, so adorable
The smell of worn out yellow pages.
Tears of nostalgia finds a way out
Voice that was meek and timid
Got buried in the crumbled sheets
Laughter found its way out
For the voice which was as scaredy as a cat in doubt!

-Prerana