Tonight

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tonight
I would not write about stars,
sun, moon or solar space,
or the waves on the shore that kisses my feet,
not even the sunshine that sprinkles yellow on my face,
for they call it
flowery
exaggeration
and a pointless emissions of words.

tonight
I would not write about the faded mornings,
sleepless nights,
empty lumps formed in throat,
the shivers of depression,
or the sighs of relief,
or the cut on my hand,
for they call it pretentious
and dead field like barren soil
all of it.

tonight
I would weave the pearls of contentment
out of my happiness
or dejection
time to time, it always differs
my immediate spot
to the farthest point of shore to reach
the journey is mine
and so, I would write
the pursuit is mine
I would write whatever
I feel
I breathe
I emit

-SHREYA