The intoxication within is powerful enough to infuse my pen with the darkest of tales to tell,
my heart is surreptitious at times,hiding even the lamest of smiles,
as I write,the emotions open up like blooming of blue-bells,now I know what all troubled me,
The white sheet was dark before my ink decorated it with my diverse butterflies;
The sheet is adorned not with dust but with cuts of heart,
as I write,I learn the truth..
and so my pen does not halts,
I write..and write.