On One Fine Day With a Friend

He was sitting right in front, a god damn friend
There was a table in between, and two cups of tea, diary, and pen
He asked me to write then and there
I asked him why
He asked instead why you shouldn't, in fact?
I didn't want to write then and gave a myriad of reasons
However he made me realize that those were excuses mere.
And when I lost all my defenses to his reasons
He asked me to write.
He took away my cup of coffee and phone
And pushed my diary towards my side
I was cleansed of every reason,
Thought, desire, and need
There was nothing left but words on diary to wreathe
He asked me to write, again.
And just as I held the pen in my hand, I tried making one last excuse
But he didn't let it escape my mouth
Before I could come up with another of my obtuse
He asked me to write. Again.
I picked up the pen, pulled my diary and got in the mood.
He asked me if I need anything else.
No, I said. I have my diary and pen.

He told me to write everything that comes to me
Everything that I've reckoned and esteemed
Everything that is mine. Everything I had misspent or was depleted of.
Every person I have chanced upon.
Every fancy I had beheld.
Every lore I have constellated.
Every actuality I have perceived.
He asked me to write about me
About him.
About the person I love.
Write the words I want to say to that person.
Write my hugger-muggers.
Write the desires I have held close to my heart.
Write my discomfitures, my infirmities.
My flusters, my pleadings
He asked me to write, write nonetheless
Bewitched, I kept on writing
As the words directly flowed out through my mind
And I tumbled myself into
Some other person's mind
I wrote enormously about that person, all his in and outs
But got stuck at a point, where my ethical mind created a doubt
And I felt I needed that person's permission
To delve further into his heart
I made my pen stop
I need to stop here, I remarked.