I write, they judge

You keep saying that I should write.
That I should pour out words from my heart.
To let you peep through my treasure of emotions.
To take you to an adventure ride.
To places where I have nothing to hide.
But I fear about things that I hear.
‘She might be depressed about something or someone ‘, ‘heart broken may be ‘ or ‘something terrible has happened to her. ‘
To spill a tinge of pain in poetry is an art.
To write about small but intriguing things is how you start.
Who else will make you relish the moments of yesterday if not me?
Who else will let you feel life is beautiful if not me?
When I first held the wings of a butterfly,
I got my fingers printed with her colours.
When he first talked to me that night
His words got imprinted in my heart.
Confessions were sweet. He was sweeter.
Miles away we were but our phones kept us together.
What would have happened if those three magical words left unexpressed?
What wouldn’t have rather, I wonder.
To endlessly go on writing about what’s in my mind is sometimes a risk.
Because at the end of the day
I write and they judge.

2 thoughts on “I write, they judge

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