Negative. I was never happy about my writings.
I can’t satisfy myself.
Why can’t I be like Sylvia Plath,
And tell a good story with a single word?
This, I always ask.
Until hundreds of days ago,
I wrote my most heartbreaking piece.
A prose on love–
the dark side of it.
And I’m quite proud of it, I think.
After reading it for the very first time,
For a moment, I paused and took a deep breath–
“Man,” I heard me whisper.
“It is good.”
For a second I felt like the lovely lady Plath.
I smiled, but it was very sad.
If that’s how it feels to be like the great writer, then
I’d rather have a blank paper, than
A hundred pages worn out
by dark thoughts and black ink.
Or unrecorded beautiful days that
Vividly live on the mind, than
Well-documented stormy days, that
Would crush me inside.
God! How unfortunate it is to know that
A heavy heart is what I need to write a good piece.
The writer in me, is a car that runs on tears.
I feed her with my grief and my haunting miseries.
Tell me, dear.
How can I start writing beautifully about today,
Now that you’re here, and
You keep on taking my sorrows away?
Look at this! Can you even
Finish this very lousy piece?