Being Random

 
   


 




    

 


 


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What am I writing for?

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  I find my writings buried deep; beneath millions of verses- phrased by people unknown; leaving me crumpled and torn.   I stare at those neglected words as my will burns down to ashes; into the dirt, my thoughts downpour; And I ask myself, 'What am I writing for?'   Is it for a chunk of money or fame?  For a name or to be best in the game? With the 'neither and nors' tied in loose knots, I stumble upon my own thoughts. When the ink stains the flawless white sheet Amidst the stacks of strokes and curves, I discover That my writings is all me; wild, natural and raw And to be myself,  the words must flow.          
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