I Am

I look at what I write and I think.
I am happy, so why do I write poems that make me feel sad?
I am content, so why must my mind dwell on the sufferings of life?
I live for the moment, so why do I then contemplate the future as I write?
I am what I am, so why do I contrast when I express with the pen and paper?

I am a poet, scared by the knowledge that the good ones die young, tortured in their minds.

I am an open book, these words are my soul and they lay in front of you, to be used as you see fit. I donot change myself when I write, yet somehow people see a side yet unknown in the words I spill. I say what I feel, writing about only what I know I can do justice to. Complex though it may be, I scribble down all that crosses my mind and intrigues it.

I am a writer, trawling on ahead, knowing that I may never see the light of day.

I try to be what I feel, but lack the ability to emote. I can only smile, cry a little and frown at best. One at a time. I'll try and look the part, but fail on more than occasion. I can be a character, a small one in an act, by fluke more than talent.

After all, I am not an actor.

Signing Out,
Confused, Wondering And Thinking


arnav said...

You got me confused as well!!

What's up? Feeling a bit weirdish these days?

anty_anand said...

A lil bit, nothing much.. should go when the exmas start :D

ishita-dasgupta said...

Errmmm...I agree with arnav over here!! :P
But I empathize...goddamn the semester system..!!! :x

anty_anand said...

Hehe. Me good! Me good!