Yesterday, she wondered if she could write.
Write all the blues of her life.
It was worth a try but the hands ,
fought back for their right.
All this time they had been compelled to write.
Made a drudge,
who could serve her right.
Was it assurance or something ,
beyond one's belief?
I guess it was agony,
that was never seen.
She was taught well,
she had a clever mind.
But , foolish she,
she could not make it out that time.
The torture is unsustainable,
dominating her life.
She's not heard anymore,
She was just a page,
scribbled all this time.
-mehar
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