She's a speech

She,
She was kind of like a metaphor.
Though to be an incomplete one,
she was one hell of an incomplete metaphor. 
The one, with whom you gotta
search out of the world to compare with.

She's kind of like a personified story,
penned to be a real one.
She's a one of kind, poem.
That can blend itself in all forms of verses of life.

Hers is the voice which alliterates through
her repetitions in my dreams.
The thought of her,is the one like a perfect
climax to a soothing life.
She's kind of like an omnipresent simile,
the one that can be like everything. 
She just can't be on the latter part of the simile,
for you won't find anything to be like her.

Writers

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!

Why!

Why do the skies run dark,
when they could have just stayed blue.
Why do we keep counting stars,
when we even, don't keep the count.
Why do the books read words,
when they could have just have them written.
Why do people fret about the fall,
when they could have just left it to destiny's call.
Why do they keep seeking,
when all of it seems less to be enough.
Why do they think too deep,
 when it all makes them to fret and to creep.
Why do they perceive that life is strange, when it's the same with a less bit of change.
Why do you dream,
when it's not sure whether you are living one or about to sleep to see one.
Why do we fall,
when it's all gonna end up standing up tall.
Why do they follow the herd,
when it's time for them to be heard.

Why do we have a habit to wait,
when it's nothing but a times' bloody bait.
Why do we frown about how serious is life, when it itself laughs and asserts out loud,
''It'll never about how is it so?, rather better it'd be if 'how' is the 'WHY' ".

Life!

Life ? What is it ?
Is it just finding happiness,
Or running away from sorrows.
Or to accept whatever it throws. 

Is it just waiting for death,
or panting for breath.
Does it start with

throbbing of your heart,
and does it end with ceasing of your brain .
For some it is a daily fight,
not for honour but for grain .
For some live to the fullest,
while some struggle to get it out of drain.
Is it living with all the glittering gold,
or is it the struggle to have cloth
just enough to fold.
Is it to forgive

for to rise above hate ,
or just being reason to someone else's fate.

For some it is only
the matter of wealth,
for some who know what it can't buy,
plead only for health.
Does it exist even after your death,
or does it before you were born .

Who knows it all,
a granny with a day to fall. 
Or a child happy with it's doll.
For those who 
think only of cashes,
should remember only one thing,
that it's just matter of time,
for we all will be nothing but ashe's.

The question is  still unanswered.

If it were in the dark,

let it be lit.
Life ? What is it ?
For I think,
It's dilemma's perfect fit.