By Divyanshi Mittal
Each dawn brings a new headline's bite,
Distant wars, the dead still outside.
Their truth printed in black and white—
Do all the words truly suffice?
Within the safe four walls of my room,
What is my blue ink going to do?
Tell me, why should I write,
When there is red bleeding at the sight?
The pen is mightier than the sword,
Or actions speak louder than words.
But if I write, no mastery flows from my hand,
And if I act, no true power do I command.
Then what path shall I pursue?
What is my blue ink going to do?
Tell me, why should I write,
When there is red bleeding at the sight?
Childhood saw futures of glory,
Red-caped heroes battling wrong with might.
Yet black-suited men reign power in reality.
What is the escape, when hope is at its adversity?
Romance or comedy, non-fiction or poetry—
What is my blue ink going to do?
Tell me, why should I write,
When there is red bleeding at the sight?
Tell me why,
Why should I,
Why should I write?