by Shreya Vijay
More often than not I’m asked,
Why I always carry a paper & pen, as if hiding behind a mask?
Why do I always write more than I speak?
What secrets am I hiding in these pens’ streaks?
Well, I have a library for a heart, ink runs through my veins
I’ve got a set of typewriters embedded in my brains.
You’ve met me? Good for you,
There’s a high chance I’ve written something about you too.
The bookshelves in my library are overflowing,
With the stacks of manuscripts & books I’ve been storing.
I have a shelf dedicated to each phase of my life,
They contain stories of my love, stories of my strife.
I’ve penned tales about people I’ve met,
Some were my greatest blessings, some my humiliating regrets.
I’ve written about them all, there is plethora of stories I penned
Of people who flicked through my library, but deserted it in the end.
Of people who constantly lifted me & cheered me on,
The ones who did everything but let me down.
Some books contain just a sentence, others have parts,
Millions of inked footprints, leisurely strolling through my heart.
It doesn’t take a genius to know what’s going on your mind,
I know you’re wondering why I do something of this kind.
I could go on and say, I’m scared of oblivion, which is not really a lie,
But since I’ve already bared my soul to you, let me give it another try.
The real reason why I write about people I once knew,
Is because, one day I hope I mean enough for someone to write about me too.