To kill a writer
I draw daydreams devoid of grammar.
Jumble memories with synonyms.
Cook laughter with adjectives.
Flirt with rhyming.
Drools over oxymorons.
My masterpiece is not just another
Or left stale at the back of a
Or a long text message
It is not just another word document
punctured with punctuations,
pathetically clutching the clauses,
with wasted verbs,
privileged by pronouns.
It is a canvas hidden with puzzles,
masking the festering wounds,
concealing a story
written in haste and hurry.
Its my medicine that I can't take
for the disease I can't fake.
Ma says I'm a dreamer
I smile slyly.
She never know I wrote things for her.
How her fingertips rubbing my scalp,
Stifling my hair
brings calm to my storms.
How her laughter to my lamest jokes
brings rainbow to my colorblind eyes!
They say, writers are over thinkers
who weaves drama
with sunsets and deaths.
I say YES!
My naked words
quivered with shame
facing your pointy fingers.
So I covered them with strike offs,
replacing them with meticulous metaphors.
They were as genuine as my freckles.
Also as shy as my face.
Maybe, that's why I covered them
with my hair of laced lies.
So never tell a writer
that her poems are plain!
she's not an upset stomach
that throws up thesaurus.
Never suggest a writer
a new Instagram infected writing style!
She'll take it.
And while you smile
She'll break it.
A writer dance for the tune of phonetics.
Plan a night out with personifications
and never think twice to
break up with your judgements
building up a tall wall of ignorance
which lets in only the legit critics.
A writer stitches gore with similes,
Iron it with ironies,
Wears it with the pretense
But when you say -
"It is beautiful"
and walk away,
You killed her with the blunt blade of cliché...