( Bars by Sumeet Gulabani ) :-
Same nib, and different shit to scrib,
Something to scrib and remaining to skip.
Sometimes, sensible and sometimes, senses unabled.
On the nib of a pen, few senses can’t scramble.
But, actually, a writer never writes to rise,
He writes for his ‘whys’ and go beyond his lies.
If he is rising, then, it is done between these lies,
In that case, people can lie, but not his lines.
When he thinks to enjoy, he come up with his joy,
In this, his joy deploys & his pen becomes his toy.
Toy (my pen) is not useless, if in my exams I used less.
In studies, I am juiceless,but, my pen will earn good, I guess.
Yes! When I started, I surely messed,
But, till this date, I surely gave my best.
Still rising, still arising and finding splicing,
You know my pen fighting, ’cause it’s thriving.
(Bars by Riya Bagchi ) :-
I am not talkative, I talk through the word,
I have feelings, the pages heard.
Inks scattered over the loose sheets,
Lying around, all over, seizing my dreams,
Waiting to be penned down, vigorously and neat.
I am not professional, it’s my zest,
I rest to write, I write to rest.
People may think of me being untidy,forgetful,
spending days so lost inside myself-
I may be stupid to some, for some, the lost soul,
Yet my thoughts run, far more than my speed.
As I write, about the sun, or even the unwanted weed.
I write a letter, full of lovely words,
Forgetting the ability of the one who reads,
In return I receive an almost empty card,
It’s such a pain to read, to comment, to see.
