I find my writings buried deep;
beneath millions of verses-
phrased by people unknown;
leaving me crumpled and torn.
I stare at those neglected words
as my will burns down to ashes;
into the dirt, my thoughts downpour;
And I ask myself, 'What am I writing for?'
Is it for a chunk of money or fame?
For a name or to be best in the game?
With the 'neither and nors' tied in loose knots,
I stumble upon my own thoughts.
When the ink stains the flawless white sheet
Amidst the stacks of strokes and curves, I discover
That my writings is all me; wild, natural and raw
And to be myself, the words must flow.
