Writer’s Pen

Look him, he writes in the heart of mankind, the bitter thoughts of his past experiences that urge him to make an abrupt remembrance of his pallid memories. The waning moon looked so painful for his haunting soul, which was almost dried by the exposure of sun’s intense heat. He was a blinking star-kid in the past, who cried for his ignorance and love that he never tasted in his boyhood days. Was he mixed love in his solitude — yes, he had a past with tranquil solitude, where love never had attached to his soul, than to fly for other unsophisticated regions of dark filled faces. He as a watcher of curious phenomenon’s and entertained himself in looking the gang of stars that silently hung in the vast, extended skies and dared to count them with sublime in his thoughts at starry nights. A fever always made him up normal as he was in the hands of ruffians. Something more was he was an aggressive learner who made mistakes in multitudes, both in his mind and its reflection called actions. His nerves are weak enough for fortune when his society cheered against his brat mind. He collected the sorrows’ drains as if He had to obey the false practices to fulfill a thought. Days and nights were undistinguishable for him to give a relief from the terror that trembled in his intense emotional mind. He yearned freedom and always tried to remove the shackles of customs from his hands, which was tight enough to remove its locked hook. Tangled by emotional thorn and wreathed by the asthmatic world, pathetic by the very origin. He believed memories are painful like the crack that occurred in the midst of soul, by the submissive violence. He, who wrote these hurts in a mystic book with dreams of pain, was not well to share his pen to others.

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