༻✧༺﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡ ༻✧༺

she is a thunderstorm held precariously in a pandora's box,
so, the wine coated world haunts her.
so, she sees the world in her own way,
with fireflies blinking behind her eyelids.

there can never be enough air around her,
so, suffocates with every inch of time she lives.
and, her screaming voice is a muted void,
screaming - to be cradled by the wind.

sometimes, the tornadoes in her spin so fast, that the world around her blurs out.
so, she lets a few threads of lightning jet out of her fingertips.
and, the lightning gives her voice.

she is a voice.

she's the voice of the sweaty, sublime breeze blowing over summer meadows,
she's the voice of the rains engulfing the earth before liberating her,
she's the voice of fallen patriot leaves being crunched to dust beneath leather feet,
she's the voice of the wailing winter.

she's the voice.

her throat gets choked, but each of the chords are fine plastic bristles of a paintbrush,
so, she hounds to find a canvas.
so, she lets her body fall freely, for all the chords to tie themselves into a pretty red ribbon bow.

each drop of blood in her veins is a brand new emotion, a feeling.
so, she strives to materialize each of them with care;
even though she knows they will float away from her like a summer wind, be washed away like a monsoon pour and broken into the little oblivions of shoe soles.
but, the winter frost will preserve her voice even in its death.

she is a thunderstorm held precariously in a pandora's box,
but the curiosity of haunted humanity forces them to open the latch;

when she breaks out,
they ask,
why does she write?

༻✧༺﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡ ༻✧༺

❥ Author's Note:

this piece is dedicated to every writer who is reading this.
dear gentlemen, i hope you wouldn't mind much the use of the pronoun 'she'. that is solely for the interest of this book.
moreover, i think art transcends beyond barriers of gender.
so happy writing to all!
keep writing, because
Your Voice Matters.
~