People say writing is a bad habit. But when the stresses disposed of in your eternal labyrinth, Whistles your pen, You start scribbling the lines, On your directionless paper, Where the sands of time drag the days from your extinct calender, Like the motion pictures. The name- once a noun and a naming word, Vanishes to the impartiality of third person pronoun. The adjectives that once shone brighter than the thousand candles, Fells to the grave. The adverbs that once fought gloriously, in defense of noun, Gets lost in the doomed shadows. And many-a-more your pen spills. The evil that once burned you, Becomes your self-portrayed masterpiece. The conscientious professors were right, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Finally, you finish your draft, And being optimistic, you submit it to a publisher Then many spams visit your mailbox, Sealed with a kiss, Waiting to be buried in the trash. That's how for the positive generalization of the negative experiences, Pen and paper give you the best company.