I Write Because I Can.

By Mayuri Korde

I write because I can.

No one can question me.

Because it's me, 

writing myself, down. 

Not being a literature student can't keep me away from ink and paper. 

Isn't it ridiculous to think?

They don't judge and differentiate as unsentimental hearts,

Who thinks a mere grammatical degree can only make language beautiful or own it? 

What is grammar? 

A script of instructions,

Stitched with a bunch of punctuation, 

hanging out with metaphors and idioms, 

and subjected to objects and verbs. 

What about the ashen emotions?

I'm not a writer. 

I'm the story of my own. 

I don't live with boundaries,

At least, not the untold me. 

The words find themselves 

A way back to me.

They entangled with my strings 

and create the cadence 

out of my lucid me.

I write because I can.

I write because I feel.

I write because I want to heal.

I am a poem with a resistance of zero ohms.

I am the beautiful world my words wander through.

I am the diary that I never had.

I am the crusty dry rose, still wrapped between pages of my untouched book.

I am the frozen teardrop on my unsent letter.

I am the drop of hope in my dark ocean of unspoken notions.

I am the scars relishing my crusade.

I am the one who knows everything but is still hidden, crescent.

I am still under the layers in wanton to breathe in the sky.

I am the dripping drop of blood, immersing in my soil.

I am the wildflower blooming in autumn, being my spring.

I am the sip of sugar in a cup of my caffeine reel.

I am the dreadful attributes 

and little divine.

The burn of judgment,

are the palpitation

to me,

to my poetry.

I am the letter in a dusty old box,

inside the old shelf,

still ceasing 

the words scribbled on it,

It still has the soothing smell 

of my inked love,

I am the wrinkle on that 

brusque parchment 

that never fades.

I am the truth.

The myth.

The grief.

The joy.

The string.

The rhythm.

The heart.

The beat. 

The laugh.

The music.

The love.

The hate.

The tune of the flute.

I am the moon.

The star.

The lyrical wax.

The rippling skins.

The trace.

The dust.

The memories.

And everything I can and you could not, ever.

By Mayuri Korde