The Quishwash of Hope”
In my head popped a thought, and upon paper it did flow. Strange, bizarre, and yet alive—words that whisper disdain, yet shine with hope.
I write not for grooming nor perfection, but for the courage to let imagination breathe.
Handwritten, raw, and perhaps a labyrinth to read—but therein lies its charm.
Sharing here, for though my script may twist and turn, the emotions are clear: resilience, light, and the banter of words untamed 😅
I felt 4 more lines for my writing thou as:
If thou canst not read my scrawl,
Fear not, dear friends, it’s no downfall.
For handwriting may twist and turn,
Yet the spirit of the words still burn.
So laugh, so squint, so guess away,
The meaning finds its own pathway.
And if my letters look quite wild,
Remember—poets are never mild 🤪 😜 !
Now not to bore any one,here's my poem:
In my head popped a thought,
Seasons blooming,
As thy bizarre, as thy hot,
Ought need not be any grooming.
People whisper,
Disdain and quiet,
Choices scarce and lest thy prosper,
Thou the shining ray of light.
When wisdom becomes facetious,
and Words lost amidst vociferous.
In thy bane, hope survived gracious,
And all that quishwash bet to bravest luscious.
Rachana Bahel
