my pen

And once again I took that pen,

Taken from the corner of ma old broken room of thoughts,

Inside the torn dusty pages of ma dairy,

She was lonely in ma happy days,

She slept in the cradle of solitude,

Like an old lady with crinkles,

But now, I have to go bak and take it again to ma being,

As I have lot of tears to fill her ink,

And no more days of happiness,

Life and its preachings were above ma potential,

For years long, she was not found being found by anyone,

Otherthan the spiders and cockroach,

Finding their way to the dead enthusiasm in ma tomb,

Now oh dear pen, you are a writer’s wish,

I cry out thorugh her nibs,

In the darkness we both share our solitude,

And now the stream of songs takes birth in her as wonderful words…