Write and Wrong

The riot of words was unstoppable;

He composed feverishly through night and day.

Liberated from the confines of black and white

Each character was captured in hues of grey.

Seasoned with a dash of punctuation

Each passage was a reader’s delight;

With every stroke of the pen in his notebook

A literary masterpiece was coming into sight.

He was a stranger to this feeling of freedom

For he knew not that this is where he belonged;

Hemmed in by morality, cloaked in a social avatar,

He was a writer whose conscience had been wronged.

There was a boy

I had made up my mind. 

But the body language gave it away.

I put up a brave face.

Yet my teary eyes told a different tale.

I maintained a dignified silence.

Though my heart was screaming in agony

I failed to hide my emotions;

It had become an open secret now.

Someone killed my inner child today,

And the untamed beast lived another day.