Last night again, I sat down to pen my thoughts...
Would it be through prose or verse...
Well that far, I hadn't thought...
All I knew was that I needed to write...
Because that is what I do...
I write to get away, I write to stay...
I write to say things, I normally wouldn't be able to say...
After having written a two-bit haiku
I instinctively turned to you...
I wanted you to have a look at it...
And tell me if my words felt alive or were they just a misfit...
What you think of my words, matters...
Because...
Well, he wrote the above words and left them mid way. Crumpled the paper on which he had written them and tossed it aside. He had grown tired of his words that had come to mean less and less everyday and made more noise than a deafening gong gone mad. What did he really have, if he had words that could be read but did not mean anything.
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