This is for him, who told me that I have to fight but didn't tell me how?
I know, writing a letter is dead form of communication but an artefact from the olden day and irrelevant in the Internet Era. Apart from this I have no alternative. You told me not to cry, but didn't tell me, what to do when I miss you so much? You told me, to be happy but didn't tell me, how to be happy without you? You also told me, no matter how aristocratic people are, but I will always have to choose a generous heart but didn't tell me the qualities of that auspicious heart. How do I find a generous-hearted person in the world full of hypocritical people? These people are excellent in pleasant colloquy but their intentions are atrocious. They say, I should live free but they don't even let me alive. They baptize me a doll but graze me in unsuitable way. You used to call me your angel, people must also have their angels too, then why don't they respect your's? I am still very little dad and incompetent to protect as well as defend myself from these monsters. I am sorry, while writing this letter, the page became wet with inarticulated sentiments.
Either You Come To Me OR Take Me With You "DAD". Love you dad!
Hope you're mending your broken heart. Are you suffering from the mess called, writer's block? Hold on for your desirable words will speak out of this mess and your heart would sprinkle chamomile essence.
• Firstly writer's block is not a permanent member for now it has been seeking for a rescue to ensure his prisoner like life dwindling from some genius books.
• It's highly unprofessional for its whole address changes from one brain to another showing the breakable collarbone within an hour like a cloud walker.
• Mastered in chaos randomly blows cigarette smokes, makes rough sketches, sitting idle upon the rocks like residing in a lonely planet.
• Running away often with dyspnoea, getting stuck there in its own diaphragm. Rooted hairs are stronger than this mortal writer's block.
• You're a grey butterfly painting winter flowers, performing ballads like the night stars which burns itself to wave bright lights in the region full of demons.
//You're a kind, bewitching reader who knows different ways to mould and master his skills in the intoxicating nights when some folks get drowned into the oceans of infatuation//
Grasping the dulcet spring, nuances collab with the lilac valley, every pain gets wiped off from the hearts of the vintage enthusiast.
Breaking the glass ceilings, carving mountains into footpaths where freedom was once strangulated amongst the wild crowds.
Flipping the pages of life like a vagabond walks the genres with his clumsy feet heedless of the end of his journey.
The white jasmine blooms in the scarlet red heart embellish the gardens of creativity and gifting the writer's mind a paradise of artistry.