I always assumed
that you could determine the will of a writer
by the quantity of ink
remaining in his pen.
Yet, I have never fathomed
what makes him brilliant.
Is it his degree of education,
his inequivalent repertoire of vocabulary to the common man,
or just born gift bestowed by heaven?
Later, I came to the lucid realization
that brilliance is conceptualized
at the hand of the inner mechanics
and harmonious complexities
that portrait the writer's
heart, mind, and soul.
From which, shape his message
by the process he takes to arrange,
construct, and execute
his philosophies and mental apparatuses
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a writer.
-n.s.

Initially, it is a *******,
A sense of guilt,
Which drags you along
Like you are a piece of dirt.

You readily absorb and galvanise
Yourself with every single piece
Of filth that you are led along.

The next feeling
Is a sense of shameless pride.

You attain what you had been
Angry and afraid of for
Such a long, long time,
And the much needed freedom
Brightens yours state,
Albeit temporarily.

You ask yourself,
Why did you bother so,
So much
About what others had condoned
Or condemned, for right now
You feel like a champion,
A victorious gladiator.

There wasn't any need
For lengthy, elaborate
Expressions of the Raphaelites.
You just needed to do it,
Get over it,
And be done with it.

Then the post-season arrives.
It ironically, is not
A revived sense of guilt
That you expected, but rather,
It developed a different feeling.

You felt disrespected.

You feel debased et reduced,
Like an animal,
With animalistic instincts.

But you are.

And that angers you,
And damages you
In a weird way.
You resort to the moves
And actions of
The intellectuals you know,
For they would never
Have been thought of
As animals.

Do they?

For me, I write.
I write to write away
(Or away from reality?)
The animal inside
That succumbs to
Animalistical desire.
Annoying, infuriating,
But the writing has to be done.

Somehow I feel better now