The only thing that made sense to me was my writing.
The day you burned them I don’t know what you were thinking.
Now every time I lay my eyes on pen and paper,
I feel them burning
And when I let my hand touch the pen,
I feel it heating.
Thinking that heat is me craving to write something,
But the moment I put pen on paper I faint and think of that tragedy.
The day I saw my poetry book burning down into ashes,
Was the day I felt my heart shrinking into pieces.
I vowed to myself that I’ll never write again.
How can God bless me with such talent and let one’s inhumanity destroy it?
Maybe I am no writer, I convinced myself and I closed that chapter.
One day I sat there, thinking maybe I am a poet, maybe this was just a test.
A test to see how passionate I am about writing.
I thought of rewriting all my lost poems.
But then again it was like I’m standing still.
There were lots of distractions.
Every time I tried to write I’d end up drowning into confusion.
Those weren’t just confusions,
But confusions that led me to suicidal thoughts.
Confusions that led me to the path of lost souls.
Confusions that made my thoughts so cloudy
And my heart crowded with hate.
Confusions that buried the happy me.
But then I told myself that if you
Love what you’re doing,
You will turn all your distractions into inspirations.
That is what I did,
Now I’m back on paper and when I touch the pen,
I smile because I know I’m about to do what I love.