Ever wonder what drives someone to pen down their thought?
To prose how they feel,
From a letter to a word to a whole sentence,
Then I'll tell you mine.

While Writers are born with a pen in their hands,
Others are made out of emotions, fate and serenity of their ambiance,
But I am made out of pain,
Pain that led to a pen and paper.

It started with a heartbreak caption to a break up poem,
And when you all alone, having no one to talk to,
The diary becomes your friend,
I spent hours with my diary,
Venting it all,
Until I realised my pen had become my master.

It controlled me,
It got the better part of me,
I became a slave to my pen,
And my mind bowed down to it,
Ideas flowed like the waters of the great river euphrates in the garden of eden.

I'll tell you what,
That's how my pen was born,
Born from pain,
And it turned to a fountain of tales and here we are,
Full of smiles.

What a journey!!!
My journey.
Maryhuxley poems 🖋️