Ask me why I chose the blade over your mere words of poetry. Ask me why I chose blade over your imaginative speech. Ask me why I did what I did in the very first place, that I stopped asking questions. Ask me why I thought to end this gift of God, this beautiful life. Ask me why, that even when I had read all what Shakespeare had written and Keats had mentioned, why I stopped reading. Ask me why I chose coffee everytime even when I loved tea. Ask me why, the colours of rainbow had lost charm and pictures and places I wanted to travel made no sense anymore.
Ask Me, I dare you to ask me why I did, all that I had done. But Oh! You mortal beings, as lonely as I am. The wordsworth and Rushdie, the poet's and writers, you all are so full of words. You write so much yet do nothing. Why are all your words falling flat, becoming nothing more than garnering of likes, shares and comments.
Why isn't one of the thousands understanding anything. Why are we still choosing blade over your words. Why, you never ask and only just recite. When you can lend your ear to someone, your heart to someone, why just write and make poems. Why just ask, why not actually listen back and love!
Fellow writers and poet's don't be offended :)
Prem Kumar Chanda thanks for the poke!
Unnati Gohel thanks for poke!