Unlike many, I never became a writer.
Writing was never something that happened to me.
Eloquence of speech rarely echoes from lips
More so drips in fine lines along starches of paper,
Contained delicately-no- deliberately between red and blue margins.
True thoughts bottled like a volatile elixir…one splash would crash course of demonic design- domestic dungeons placed plain to view.
Brains in jars,
No room to contemplate stars, philosophy has fossilized.
A writer, no.
Rather, a human who still moves a pen.
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