The Writer's Paradise Poem by deepanshi sabnani

I was new to this writer’s paradise,

They said I wore a different lens,

So I could enter…

As I stepped in with my huge luggage of dreams,

The fragrant air of imagination inside touched my soul,

The huge walls of fame,

With phrases of perfect writings,

Were finely coated with appreciation,

They were so perfect,

That one would doubt the Gods wrote them,

Yes indeed! They were the Gods of literature,

So, inspiration rained blood and sweat from the blue roofs,

The wide floor of thoughts facilitated my journey,

But only a list of followers could push me up the stairs,

‘Write what is read’ was the music inside,

My pen ran the blank lines of paper as several others,

Blank, it was left, as before,

For writing came easy only when the words came from my heart,

Recognition and stardom were cooked as meals,

Hunger was enormous,

But the food was scarce,

The price to be paid was copies of hard paper-backs,

The fluid to drink was a paper-green,

Salty water of my own eyes was all I ever drank,

There are no exit doors in this paradise,

Either win and dissolve in the walls of fame,

Or die to fly out of this pain,

There aint a midway…

Either win or die! ! !