Always been a worshipper of words,
Sometimes makes her believe its her biggest curse,
Through joy of reading, the desire to write emerged,
Refused to believe it has the power to hurt,
Though she's not an artist, she painted her thoughts,
As hues of words, in her amateur art,
Her style barely refined, its contours coarse,
Somewhere between the lines, her meanings were lost,
As she walked by and watched the canvas of others',
As they carelessly splash multiple colours,
They brought joy, sadness and wonder,
That feeling she felt, to her, their words were priceless.
Like other strangers who flip through their pages,
She lets them know how beautiful their work is,
When words fail, she only did what she could,
She walk away silently without a word,
Why do we dissect her every move,
Why do we analyze every single tune,
Why hurt if we can't undo the hurt,
Why is always someone we're trying to convert,
She's none but a stranger to you,
Doesn't sympathy have any value,
Pretty words and pretty poetry,
That wasn't what she wanted to be,
She painted from her heart, her brutal honesty,
Uninhibited thoughts and feeling carefree,
She flirts with words, in her loneliness she lives,
She was speaking to herself through these,
Broken canvases that she believed,
Wouldn't hurt her, but she was deceived,
Why do we fail to see, that even in
coarse creations, there's an artless beauty.