I am one of those arrogant,
The ones who don’t like sharing individuality,
Who enjoy criticism only from the finest
In her eyes, and in her perspective.
I am one of those egotists,
Who are protective of who they are,
And despise being defined
As anything short of flawless.
I am a pen who scratches thoughts,
Thoughts that only belong to me,
In my own darkness,
Or the glittering light beneath it.
Sadly, the pen is not alone,
There are minds who want to play with it,
Thoughts that want to be scratched
Forcefully, note carefully –
Not because I want it, but because they do.
They don’t harbour my singularity,
They don’t belong to my mentation,
They are plurals of a myriad body,
A continuous disillusionment,
An unanimous majority.
The pen will scratch,
Blot ink on a papered imagination,
For it lives, basks and breathes on it;
Yet, it will not submit to their demands,
For it is unique, in its own belief.
The writer grows wings on her own,
Feathers of fantasy, strings of reality,
Her reality, not theirs;
For she is the sole proprietor,
Of her phanstasms, and many things.
They urge it to transform,
Change its course according to their needs,
For they are failures in her view,
Afraid of confrontation, subconscious eschew;
The pen knows to scratch for her only.