This pleasure of putting life and lines down on paper is a bizarre thing to do. It gives the itch and the growing pains all at the same time.
Sometimes, you can't say to your head or to your pen that today I will write a better poem. Sometimes the touch is not there at the moment. Not even if you bang your head or dance to Bryan Adams' mushy beats. The waiting aches at times. And it gives you some room to grow even more or sometimes, it gives you some blank days or even blank years until it comes again in torrents.
But in this attempt called art, the truth should come off as a breeze, as though one has never heard of it but one that people could hold on to when plain words are short of the oomph.
But the hullabaloo is not about the oomph itself, but it is about dishing out the pathos in truths without the schmaltz.
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