the pen ran out of ink

Strange

If this blog is the only medium of my writings, one would think that I haven’t written anything on the month of September. But I have. A lot, mostly drafts.

It’s that time again, when my mind is so drained that finishing a poem is just too much, when my feelings are so complicated that I don’t even bother to try and understand, and when the future is so bleak that you don’t know what you really want.

But I think, well it’s a common knowledge really, that the value of writing is not how great your pieces are or how well they are received, it’s when you are able to pour your heart out and really express what you want. Forcing yourself to write would do you no good, it just comes out naturally. Like love, perhaps.

So when my pen ran out of ink, I let it be. For once in a while, it needs to rest and stop bleeding just as my heart. 

Daily Post’s Value

Advertisements

scary at times

Strange

Writing is scary. At times.

I’m scared of it because once you write, things get more real than ever. Like your feelings for someone: hatred, love, anger, jealousy, etc.

That’s why most of us write indirectly, because we fear the emotions creeping in our hearts and minds. We feel, and we know, that once they’re written down, we can’t get away from it. Or that it’ll be hard to get away from it.

But we can’t help but write. To document, to express, to whatever reason why we do so. And we should never stop. No one should.