By Hardik Jain
Unsettled thoughts, they swirl and spin,
Too much to hold, they pour within,
The ink runs low, but still I try,
To write it all, before I die.
To pour my heart, onto the page,
To express the feelings, that were never said,
To make sense, of the turmoil inside,
To find some peace, before I hide.
But still, the paper remains blank,
Unwilling to understand, or even to thank,
The writer's pen, for all the care,
That went into each word, each feeling bare.
But still, I write, I cannot stop,
For in the words, my soul will drop,
And though the paper, may not care,
The writing process is a solace rare.
So let the ink, continue to flow,
Let the emotions, al1 be shown,
For in the writing, we find relief,
And a chance to heal, and find some peace.
By Hardik Jain
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