Writers Jam

iIn my room, objects breathe like secret companions, each carrying a fragment of my unfinished self. the cracked mug on my desk is more than porcelain it is a cathedral for abandoned thoughts, chipped at the rim like a memory that has forgotten its shape. it no longer holds coffee, only pens and broken pencils as if creativity itself needs a vessel to keep from spilling. sometimes, when the evening light falls through the curtains, the mug gleams like a wounded relic, whispering that even the most fragile things are still holy. a diary lies half-open on my bed, its spine bent like an exhausted spine of a pilgrim, pages swollen with ink and silence. i've written confessions there that i could never speak aloud, metaphors that limped halfway across a page before surrendering. each smudge of ink feels like a bruise i never showed to anyone, each unfinished line a bridge left dangling over an unseen river. the diary does not judge me it waits, patient as the moon, listening without interruption. on the shelf above, a clock has frozen at 3:17. i don’t know if it stopped ticking because the batteries died or because time itself grew tired of moving in this room. sometimes, i stare at its still hands and imagine that it is mocking me: a reminder that deadlines are illusions, that eternity can exist in a single second. at night, i swear the clock exhales in the dark, breathing in my poems, breathing out the seconds i will never reclaim. and then, in the corner, a single sock lives without its pair, stubbornly refusing to disappear. perhaps the other one ran away during laundry, seeking freedom like an escaped prisoner. this lonely sock now rests on my desk like a guardian of chaos, reminding me that imperfection has its own kind of poetry. even in its crumpled silence, it seems to laugh at me, saying: “you cannot control everything, poet. some things must remain incomplete.” together, these objects hum in quiet chorus - the mug, the diary, the clock, the sock : each a verse, each a broken note. my room becomes a song i never meant to compose, a melody stitched from unfinished metaphors and small, loyal ruins. and maybe that is what poetry is after all: not perfection but the music of things that choose to stay, even when they are broken, lost or left behind.