peeking into the elysium
where many damaged souls rest in peace,
i find you servicing and guiding them
through their pain elegantly.
the one's who are blessed with penmanship
but still fail to make a reach,
the ones who struggle to find value
for what their art preaches.
you hold their creations in your palms
and present it to the world.
you vouch for their brilliance
and make us see their real worth.
seldom misinterpreted by people
and some even question your virtues,
still you hold a special place in many broken hearts,
even more than words do.
you dont have a face,
but we look at you as our representative
your presence is a blessing
in this place which is like a native
you've been working from a long time,
from thousand hours and minutes
but you still carry our words on your back,
like it's not been a long time since you've been doing this.
when we're worn out from writing our pain down,
our frowns turn into smiles when you make a visit
i happily dedicate this ode to you, to the one who makes us push our pen harder,
and to its very limits.