Writers write, readers read,
A little less than they know,
It's far more than difficult to provide them what they greed.
Many a times nights grow deep,
It's not the habit that fouls the sleep,
rather it's the time when everything seeps.
Calmed at face, but mind chaosed with different ideas.
Each of which run in different way,
some go on and find the way, while some tend to stray.
These are the ways which reach out people,
People I say because,
some pretend and read,
While some get offended,
If not for sentiments than for creed.
While some walk the way as dreamt,
So do they fall for the little things
that words did paint!
It's always this that the writers fear,
Though the pens' mightier than the sword.
It's the swords that run down flesh,
when the words cut through the religious mesh
Writers write, readers read,
Its never the number of copies that get sold,
but is the number of souls they freed!
