Rather timid may it seem,
To admit the fear of the unseen,
Everywhere that I have been,
I see a pile of double covered pages
To read them... will it really take ages?
Can it become contagious?
These written lives, written treasures,
Come out as one engages.
The letters lifting from the stationary sheet
Through the pupils of one pupil
Diligently diving into the neuron pool, as the travel through the trivial thoughts tremendously.
Like a punch full of ones written words
It brings a sort of fulfilment...
But for how long?
Words all these words that are written,
They can signify everything that has been forbidden
Ones can make you driven
Ones can help you gain the correct rhythmn
To help you escape the world we are living
The writer, who's afraid of books
The idea of forgetting the injection of words,
is as weird as it sounds,
The little brain of mine has wounds - while
Comprehension is doubted,
passion is daunted
My thoughts are hounted
While reading, mind seems plummeted.
Can I get through this, my mind's rusted,
How can I brush it up? Ages this has lasted
I'll hold on to these beautiful words,
These written thoughts and write lots.
All these sources make me feel overwhelmed,
The so called old fashioned books are digitised.
Broken up and written concisely,
Led to laziness and no love for literacy.
I love to write this poetry,
I love to read it too, I had a fear for books, I will try,
I will develop this fear
into a sky so crystal clear
that I will have in my mind while the letters flow
Until imaginations is mastered and I know more.