The Scribe Poem by Shilpa Mallya

The writer had her stories,
Carrying Life's perplexities,
In the tears that she had smiled,
The plight that she was tried.
In the times she was wild, but yet so mild.
She imagined things, stories compiled,
Those that was destined to be
but aren't to be
She imagined those things
The ones that got away

She weighed herself to the consequences of what she wrote
Those very ones that came of note

Those books filled with hope
Of magic and love
Fantasy and drama
And all the other trauma

She lived her life buried in words
Cutting across someone like some swords
Reprimanded for all the mistakes
The ones she did when her inhibitions were at stake

Yet those are the only ones that you may remember
Like the one that happened last September.
Just an innocent rhyme,
Yet one might think there had been a crime.