Stuck delicately in between the middle and the index finger, with gently being supported by your thumb, I start moving in the rhythm of the process for eradication of your pain. When frustrated, you tear the skin of the pages with the tip where I flow my life, you throw me at times and pick me as often, you torture me for your misfortune as if I’m at fault, yet I forgive you for everything, I’d never complained even for your sweaty palm because dear beholder, you’re my family, I’m closer to you than you are to yours. I’m the root to you, I will fight the storm to hold you straight, to add you with courage, and even if you fall you’ll see the struggle of mine, my unloosen grip. I have more often than not, been the slave of your misery. I am picked up on seasons where your eyes aren’t dry, when your body trembles out of the horrifying truth of life that you visualize in intervals of truism. I am called out for my job when your days are dull. I have been a celebration of your joy for so little, and so much of the mourning. I am more of melancholic times, dragged to help you wipe the inner chaos at midpoint of sleepless nights. I try pouring clarity to your tragedy, so that you could solve it out. I am the audience of your whimpers, I’ve sighted the ugliest side of yours, the ones where you abandon all your deceiving facades. I know the exact story of your darker half, I’ve sketched out paragraphs that you show to nobody. I am the bestfriend of your insomnia, and the exception to your solitude, I’m the silent utterance of your grief, when your voice is too weak to carry the volume of mental burdens, tell me dear, ain’t I?
I get slide on the flesh of your diary, its smell is the oxygen to me. I try to pump out your aching causes into the sheets, in a hope to turn you stronger before the sun does rise. I dance on papers, bleeding the way you want me to, painting the curves of different letters, stitching and combining your favorite words, and in the process, with every next ounce of your vent, my liveliness gets shortened, my ink becomes lesser. And I do not regret, because I know I’m living it before my end knocks at the gate. And I know that long after of when it manages to break the door and rush in towards me, I would’ve been able enough to remain immortal somewhere in-between your poems, and the vibes, and in the interest of your readers. No matter wherever you get published, I’ll be the resident of the original work. And this, in the fanciest of my dreams, would be my paradise. Because I want you to believe in the optimistic side of every stuff, and I want you to know the mountain of your troubles will someday be the staircase to the high. And if fortune permits, I hope I’ll be the scribbler of joviality, the device to type your victorious tale.
But most of all, I’ll always be one metaphor. Because of being a pen, yet an eraser of your affliction.