Life is like a journal

Life is like a journal

Life is like a journal
Punctuated with doubts,
And we are no less, a writer
Who keeps writing about.

When shall this composition end
If this innocent hand could barely stop?
Forever to write some filthy words,
Or of joy, or of anger and hope.

This hand gripping the very pen
Keeps on dancing as if in glee,
Though these very eyes have started to glaze over
This poor monotonous story.

Once, we hope to switch genres,
At some point after so many chapters,
Yet, will you challenge these paragraphs for such change?
Will it make things any better?

Why should this question mark be there,
Hindering both thoughts and dream in mid-sentence?
Then, never stop, never falter,
Let this strong words flow at our own prudence.

When shall this composition cease, when shall it halt,
I wonder,
When this story finally stop, when journey ends,
Only then, will the ink disappear.