Ink that flows

Maybe I don’t need anything but a pen and ink bottles

so I write letters and keep on writing them

until they start flying on their own

and reach to all the hidden cornerstones

and all the concealed shabby shelters

to people who want to know the things

which keep the world alive

and the things which kept them away

from saying what that had to be said

and the things which could have changed

the course of lives and the summers

because people can’t see things till

they walk the bridges themselves

and they don’t trust the hearts till

their stupid minds sleep deep in the night

and these crazy people fear all the good things

to be monsters behind faces flashing their

giant, hideous shadows when even children know

that monsters under the bed can be happy creatures

So now when they get older and

receive the letters, they finally sit by the windows

and think about it and keep on thinking

until they can get up and go about doing

the things, the same things that had to be done

and the things which could made lives

more fluffy and with more lights on

when girls dance like pretty ballerinas and boys

sit back in awe and clap like fools