May 3rd 2021

Reads: 66  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a memoir on writing.

I am delving into the consciousness of writing. Sensations of dripping the pen wound around me as a ballet. Writing is the scorching heat of the body. Writing is also the gentle passion of the sunset. Writing happens when the ego speaks to the soul. Writing is a happening of many adventures. Writing springs from the existence of being. Time wraps wounds of an angst in writing. Writing offers solace and comfort for the soul. Writing is a passionate desire of being. Writing is a becoming of chance. Writing is the melody of the ocean. Writing is painting of words and the language of music. Writing is consciousness brought out in pulchritude. Why write? I ask the question to myself. My writing speaks of the many characters in me. Writing is the solitude of art. Writing is the hearing of beauty. Writing is a disguised ornament. Writing is a garden of flowers. To write, is to exist in passion. Writing is the blood poured on paper. Why write? I ask the question again and ad again. Writing is also the craft in mourning. Writing is an adventure to experience. Writing is the passionate hum of existence. Writing is an orchard sprinkled with the colorful rays of the sunset. Writing is passion untold. Writing is the song of the morn. Writing is a gentle lullaby. Writing is also the mind experiencing a stormy winter. Writing brings solace for the soul. Writing is a tool to weather the soul.


Submitted: May 03, 2021

© Copyright 2021 anand bose. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments

uduak

Wow!i like your poem.NICE ONE

Mon, May 3rd, 2021 4:04pm

Facebook Comments

More Literary Fiction Short Stories

Other Content by anand bose

Short Story / Romance

Short Story / Historical Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction