Story of a Writer

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I’m all alone
Perfection exists on my own
I can no longer think of blunders
All I can see is most direct, no errs
The thoughts of changing into better
Thinking the things to be done in God’s will.

No more laughter
No more smiles and tears
thinking…all over again
Just a pen and a bit of paper I gain.
Making my anguish gone is the aim
Asking ‘why am I like this anyway?’
‘why do I think this way?’

Even the truth, I long to be better
What then my way of getting over?
Putting myself in a cubicle-like room
Taking down the things on my mind
If reading can make me comprehend
Or just even in writing if I can learn
Or should I change the real me?
I am what I want to be…

I proved to be the best in touch
But I am not excellent that much
I want to be in God’s hand of will
But nobody can show me how I will
What I truly deserve to feel.
I always feel so frustrated and disrespected maybe
Everything is so unkind to me
Seems everyone betrays my dignity
I am felicitous today
But why am I dreary the other day?

Don’t I have any option?
Could there be someone can carry me on
That the life they are telling
I may not suppose to be in subsisting
Since I don’t understand this
What’s the way it is…

Can you blame me if I feel this way?
Am I too bad to be always in jeopardy?
I am just born to be a human
Some things are obstructed and undone
I am not that clever to understand
Every other man’s imperfection.

I am just an unaffectedly simple in a way
Certified namby-pamby as people say
There’s nothing remarkable about me
I am just an artless writer of my life story.