Do we start writing with our will,
Or is it something that unwillingly pops out?
Do we love the connection we hold with our notepads,
Or is it just us venting out?

Our notepad is our extension to the world,
Sometimes it’s just a few words making up a line,
Sometimes it’s the clammy pages that see us whine,
Sometimes it’s just the worries we write about and share,
Sometimes it’s the pages and the miseries that we dwell on.

Sometimes words are enough to express how we feel,
But sometimes thousands of pages can’t hear us out when we cry and kneel,
Sometimes it’s things we’d say to people after we fight,
But sometimes it’s just apologies we might not share, or, probably we might,
Sometimes it’s how we feel about people, anguished or delighted,
But sometimes it’s just blank pages expressing nothing.
Sometimes we rise and shine with the brightest starts to the cloudiest days,
But sometimes it’s gloomy even on the Sunny ones, where our hearts melt like clay.

Sometimes poems are related to passions we could not follow,
Sometimes it’s articles related to growing up, the hardest pill that we have to swallow,
Sometimes it’s anecdotes about people we love,
Sometimes people find it overwhelming,
Sometimes it’s good for ears,
Sometimes it’s cringey sweet,
Sometimes it’s about stars that never meet,
Sometimes about hearts that are stripped away,
Sometimes about beautiful things that dumbfound us on our way.

Sometimes we start writing because of the bad weather,
Sometimes it’s out of boredom,
Sometimes it’s about innovations we wish we could work upon,
Sometimes it’s about people who help us carry on,
Occasionally we link writeups to people we’ve met,
But sometimes it’s just imaginations we wish we could bring to life, I bet!

Sometimes it has pages about people who are chapters,
Sometimes about people who are just incidents, incidents that happened like a head bump
and vanished with time, in a single look,
Sometimes it’s about people who are the “Entire goddamn book”,
Sometimes it’s about people whom we can’t even mention in there,
secretly praying that we could slightly fit them in, in there
And sometimes it’s about people we wish were real.

So why do people say that all the writers are hurt,
Hurt brings out the goodness in what they write,
Sometimes it's not about how hurt they are, it's all about how much hurt they are willing to be,

Sometimes it's not about the broken feelings, relations, and promises they leave behind,
Sometimes it's all about how many of them can they keep alive with the books they write.

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