By Naisargi Bhatt
Write in the gush — before the mind meddles,
Before the critic sharpens its teeth.
Let the words stumble, let them spill,
Let them rush in reckless relief.
Not everything must be polished or wise,
Not every line must glimmer with gold.
Let the ink pulse, unfiltered, alive,
Let the story be messy and bold.
Forget the rules, forget the grace,
Forget the need for a perfect pace.
Write as if the dam has burst,
As if each thought is unrehearsed.
Somewhere between the chaos and storm,
Between the tangled, untrimmed form,
A voice emerges — raw, unchained,
Unapologetic, uncontained.
You can prune the wild vines later,
Shape the jagged, trim the fray.
But first, let the words flow freely,
Let meaning find its own way.
For writing is not just sculpted stone,
Not just order, rhythm, and rhyme.
It is breath and pulse and fury,
It is surrendering to time.
So hush the voice that says, "Too much,"
Ignore the fear of getting it wrong.
Write in the gush, in the flood, in the rush,
And let your soul become the song.