My Blank Diary

The new pen had been nagging me to begin. 

“Huh!” I said, “You think it’s easy?” 

One has to think and plot and get the threads right 

To bind the happy with the solemn and the tears with the bright.

And then to find the right colours as costumes,

For the pensive it’s a sedate blue, immersed in musings of the false with the truth. 

The writers always are the most difficult to dress; they change their moods as often as they do

Just when I put on that bold red,  the writer chose a Haiku which ends in a feeling of soft blue.

Easy do you think even the rainbows are? 

Look at the sky again and see them neighbouring colours merge; 

Running behind clouds, the seven play hide and seek,

Just as I pick my violet, the indigo starts to peek!

Even my happy hero sheds his velvet when the shadows grow, 

For when tears flow in loneliness and in sorrow, 

He shelves his golden riches for the ’morrow, 

And paints his crown in a halo of gold.

Your bold strokes and caresses breathe life in my words, 

While I often pen harsh lines, you smoothen them with hues soft. 

I pick up my thoughts while you paint a story, a craft, 

While I fly into the vast blue of my thoughts, like a flock of birds.

Through ups and downs and hills and taverns, 

And nooks of love and tornadoes of passion. 

Into a tranquil sea, we rest, my thoughts I lay down, 

Waiting for the tide to carry them far into another blue horizon.