leaving for her journey

Hello bloggers,

I got a wonderful opportunity to work with the lovely Merbear and you know what, we ended up creating this poem together. Please read and share your views.

leaving for her journey

She was binding her hair in a bun

Readying herself for the journey ahead

Which may take her to distances unknown

Bring in her the sense of being alive

She had never felt ever before

She was leaving behind all her fears

For the adventure that awaited her

 .

Her stomach coiled like a snake

Past torments licking at her heels

Dare she run so fast and proud?

Her life not worthy of a fairy tale

She sighs so loudly she startles herself

Trapped emotions needing to meet air

Praying to breathe air

 .

The stream of tears fell down her cheeks

Which she didn’t even care to wipe away

She was looking for a happy ending

Which she had to find herself in her own way

She picked up her hand bag of happy memories

And moved ahead towards her cage door

And pushed it open, it wasn’t locked

 .

Desperate echoes of her soul

Beckoning to her aching heart

Calling her to where she needs to be

She trembles with trepidation

Limbs weakened by the struggle

Her life never drawn before

By her own personal design

 .

She was never meant to be free

Doubts crossing her mind

When she had just seen the sunshine

But she would never return back

And thence, she flies away

Its true leaving is difficult but

Once you have left, it is easy not to turn back

 .

Then the breeze whispered her name

A lullaby warm and soothing

Like balm for her battered soul

Bringing her back to herself

Oh, she thought she had been lost!

Smiling inside herself with pure joy

For her true path was known all along

 

Advertisement

Writer’s Cookie

He was turning out to be the person he wished he would never become. He was terrified of the boredom he was experiencing daily. It was as if he had nothing to do.

“The last book, I wrote, was five years back,” he told his close friend.

It was never published. Truthfully, none of his books were ever published. He had written a few books, some of them he could never convince himself to send to the publishing houses and while the others he had sent were kindly rejected, though he didn’t know because he never got a reply and he forgot it all with time.

“It is alright. You have a few ideas in your mind, right?”

“Yes, I have but they mean nothing till the time I start working on them. They have to come to life to mean something,” he desperately put forward his agony.

“Then work on them.”

“I can’t. Whenever I turn on my laptop and open a word document to type out the words ready to pour out of my soul, I end up typing not even a single word.”

“Why is it so?”

“It is because I feel doubtful either about my ideas or about my capability of working over them.”
He sipped his tea but didn’t pick up the almond cookie, even though he wanted to and rather just looked at it with a morbid sincerity.

“You are no longer enjoying your writing, are you?”

“I haven’t been writing. So, how can I tell?”

“It is okay. Take some time. And may be then you can join a creative writing class.”

“I am old now and there would be kids there.” He finally moved his hand towards the cookie to pick it up; it had lured him into a desire to consume it.

But his young friend’s hand was swifter and she picked it up and gobbled it down and his hands remained in an awkward position. It was the last cookie.