Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble,
And voila! There's something.
Now let us see if its good or bad.
That's how I have been writing my stories.
Should a story be written by a writer?
Or should a story write itself through a writer?
If only there was an answer,
An author's job would have been so kinder.
The heart's twists and turns,
Make it so interesting,
The simple placid slow paced life
Which is for most depressing.
Yet I enjoyed my days then,
And I enjoy them still.
I am in love with life.
Every crest and fall is music.
A nomad never stays here,
Nor does he stays there.
He keeps walking his unknown journey,
Towards the end of days fair.
Where he gets a story to tell,
Of a life that he scribbled without a pen.
He is not of a tribe, place or culture,
Just another one of society's men.
He is a very simple picture.
The one that the journey drew,
Over the completion,
Of his adventures few.
I have set my foot out,
And I will keep walking,
Till I take my story out,
From fate's cruel hidings.
