In Defense of Making Sense in Writing

I was told I didn’t make sense in my writing

In a mission which had projects that weren’t fit for the task.

Projects that were all over the place and showed trivial strengths

But I was to punch above the weight of this maddening bison

And write “technical” non-verbosity that sounded elegant

When the company was banking on millions in their greatness

Weren’t so great if you meant bright marketing and dressing up

Of mediocrity in their data and technological “breakthroughs”

With a kind of lacklustre speaking, seeing or knowing.

I didn’t want to think twice or thrice

Out came my art of writing in a piece of work that made little sense

To a person known as “C” like “C” knew everything about the world when in truth

“C” knew nothing at all about the work and me.

Yet “C” took all the words I wrote which “C” deemed little sense to go for a spin

And spun entire new meanings for it.

Making words sound lesser than any sense I’ve written

All the while describing my text as frustrating to read.

That words must sound in its image a cognitive “correctification” all the time

To words only subjective, perceptive and dependent on who, when or how so one thinks.

This became an anxiety that made me think what the hell was wrong with me

If I couldn’t write the way in the doneness of being correct to the T

And typing “like everyone else does or should be”.

C’s comparison of my work to boring writers in their “well-doneness”

Lands the finishing stake to the heart and the body is not the same.

So I strayed far from writing for a while.

It made me think, that not making sense in writing

Might be the world’s wrongest sin,

An injurious insult to art and science.

- Vania (Vander)

A Love Letter To Boss

Halsey, a sweet, intelligent girl had a job at a firm.

Doing her best always, she tried to prove herself as an upcoming success.

Even when alone, she worked past office hours,

Loving everything she did no matter how hard

Failure and criticisms stole her smile on the longest day.

One day, there was something Halsey could no longer forget.

She had loved her boss, so deeply so that,

It was more than fleeting love at first sight.

The boss on the oafish dictatorship voice seem

At times a scum, at times a soul so divine that sees and knows

Halsey not as a bird trapped, but an infinite talented star

That took all the sun, rain, clouds and thunder into her hold.

Three hour pep talks often he gave,

Were in the spirit to get off the dime, better than unsaid.

But there it is, this love wind blew in from the windowless,

Anticipating each call from this name madly in office.

Her heart had left elsewhere, already taken.

But Departure told this good girl to call it all in.

Goodbye, Mr. Boss, I had loved you too much so.

Remembering all the things he had told her,

Thinking if any kisses had any meaning,

Words that cared and cared not,

Never even a spark of an affair.

They were not meant to be, he a father, a husband,

A millionaire owner player feeding but never offering affection.

This time, a final glance at his distant frame,

Was all she could get, so by the last Friday,

Halsey packed up and left,

Mind and body would rather get the sack.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).