The Notebook

I have a notebook. I call it smoke.
It lays down on my room's table, like a corpse,
ready to be rescued
but
scary enough to wait for some brave hearts to carry itself away.

The corpse narrate tales of its life
and if you flip hard enough,
maybe,
just maybe,
you'd find the most beautiful poetry you'll ever read in your life.

But the truth is you're not a brave heart. The corpse scares you.
It carries with itself realities of the wordsmith's world which is no less different than yours.
And you don't read realities.
You read words.
Just words!

The world inside that notebook, to you, is like the enourmous ice-laden mountains of our country that have been named as field postings,
beautiful,
yet untamed,
not ready for the general public,
only a few brave hearts.

I have a notebook. I once called it 'reality'. Now I call it 'smoke'. Those words are nothing else.