A pen in hand

It's mind boggling. I found an old yellowing notebook in my cupboard when I was cleaning it to make space, and without any reason, I just skimmed through its pages. And in one of them lied a one page write up in my own handwriting with the headline "A pen in hand". And I kid you not, I don't remember that I wrote it, leave alone remembering the thoughts in those lines. Icky feeling! Like someone else came in my mind and guided my hands to write it. Uhh.. I often get such feelings when I go through mails that I sent four or five years back. Isn't it strange to be taken aback by a thought that came out of your own mind? Anyhow, below is that small writeup(without edit). It my sound weird or incorrect or poorly edited when you read. Never mind.

A pen in hand

The power of pen is so elusive. I've had it for some years in my hand. And only now can I realise its true power. Where was I heading? Why did I learn typing? I'm a pretty fast typer. May be it's the side effect of gaming that seeped into me. Computer gaming. No, I shouldn't deviate in that direction. I've to stay here. So, power of pen. How is it different from power of keyboard. There is no research to be done on who receives it, the product of writing. Rather it's the process of generation of thought that is getting tweaked. A pen in hand is like the subconscious talking to me so fast. I've written this big bullshit in less than 2 minutes. So fast. My brain sends pen a message. Hand in work. Fingers forming pressure on the pen in a systematic way that we learnt in school from nursery to may be 1st or 2nd. And now we're accomplished. You see, there is no dishonesty involved because it's our honest childhood learning in play. However, when we type, we fudge as we learnt that somewhere in high school(i know it's sad to hear). We were mixed breeds by then with convoluted and complicated thought process. We are not who we are but the mix of our acquaintances. Really. No matter how ungiving and steady you are, you are not pure. And if you are in search of that pristine, of that original being of yourself, then grab a pen... grab a pen... and let it do the talking... to you... because my dear friend..Pens don't lie. 

Pens don't lie

Equations in love

Bare and bold

he walks in the acid rains.

Passion warming the cold

and love filling the veins.

Wrapped around gold,

his accomplice is a flower

for whom his palm unfolds

and shields her from shower.

But the shield is double edged,

it may scratch the thread

it may guard the aroma

From reaching out to himself instead

As the two souls tumble downhill

together on sand,

their fingers may get unclutched

and make them misunderstand.

But the hearts stay together

no matter where they land,

no matter what they say

If, but, whether, can or and.

Both may shed tears

but it only catalyzes

the positive swarm against fears

when in her absence, he analyzes.

Sometimes he wobbles and sleeps

with thoughts of depart,

but all the haze clears by one look

at those divine works of art.

Fortunately,

Both acknowledge this “fun”

of facing those word bullets

fired from the other’s gun

These fights are cute

Aren’t they?

as they rekindle the same

togetherness of the first day

When they clutched palms

referred as “night and day”

sitting on the wall beside

the far-off water bay.

“The company has been eventful.

Honey, ain’t it?

It made my life beautiful”

He said “Thanks for being part of it”

-- This poetry is a work of fiction