Lone Traveller

Oh, lone traveller,
Where are you going?
What is your destination?
Are you not a settler?

Or have you tried and failed?
Did no place felt like yours?
Where are your people?
Do they even keep you mailed?

Oh, Dark dweller,
Didn’t you lose faith again?
After being banished once again,
from every other corner

Have no place kept you long?
Long enough to love you?
Or, have they been scared of you
called you “very wrong”?

Is freedom just a fiction?
If world is filled with people,
with prefixed thoughts and beliefs,
will they forever hate your diction?

Will they not welcome,
a stranger with some gift,
a gift called smile,
even when he’s lonesome?

Looking for a place stay,
are you not tired?
Kicked away from everywhere,
are you left just to stray?

Where did you belong?
Or did you ever?
Have you been wandering,
with heart that’s so strong.

Good luck, Lone traveller,
you might just find what you need.
Farewell till we meet again.
Yours sympathetic, storyteller.

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Writing is not a skill acquired through practice. Not for us, at least. Writing is a phenomenon that occurred to us when we wanted to shout our thoughts out. It happened when our brains formed a labyrinth of thoughts with no way out. The only way was to break the walls, the walls we constructed in our minds—the walls which stopped us from letting ourselves out. We broke the barriers using the mightiest weapon, the pen. Writing was our way out of that maze. Words and sentences flowed like a stream of some river, which consisted of A2Z instead of H2O. Soon the river filled the brain and the labyrinth was not visible anymore.

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