Sometimes
My blood gets
Frozen,
Skin turns thick.
Mind goes blank,
Pain becomes
Illiquid.
Empty walls
Stare,
Blank papers
Mock.
Solitude turns
Into a mirror.
My reflection,
A failed
Literature.
I keep stabbing
Myself to make
My pen bleed.
Ink-trails are
The only way out
It seems.
Wounds are
Portals to
Freedom,
When the soul
Does freeze.
Quill is the key.
And the bird that
Flies away is,
A poem indeed.
Each day,
I make your
Effigies.
And
Burn them
By night.
From the
Ashes,
You're born
Again,
By dawn.
...
Phoenix is
A bird that's
Born out of
Love.
And burnt
In loss.
About the
Prison
It cycles in,
It doesn't
Know at all.
...
I think
That's how
I'm losing
Each day...
Hope in
A prison,
Is not good
After all.
..
Mind took me
Places.
Hovered on
Dreamy lands..
Thoughts took
A shape.
A Blue Bird
Was born.
It grew wings.
Was meant to
Fly high..
...
But my throat
Is a graveyard
Where words
Often die.
A standstill.
Fluttered wings.
Poked my mind.
And hit
Some walls.
A frustration
Set in.
Each day an
Attempt was made.
But how do
You make..
A Dumb person
Talk?
A pen
With a paper
Was such a
Plan!
And at the
Behest of
Ink trails,
Emancipation came.
Thoughts flew
Off my brains.
Peace is just
Another bird.
Poem is a flight.
I hum over
The mundane.
Sing when happy.
Seek ink trails
When sad.
Carry stars in
Pockets to
Swim through
The darkness.
..
Giggles in the
Funerals.
Not so uncommon
Dark humour.
Melancholia
At will.
Long stare at
The ceiling fan.
You know..
Just incase...
..
Quite unusually,
The radio plays
An unfamiliar song.
Maybe Italian.
But who cares
Right?
Death has
No color.
..
The crowd and
Empty rooms,
Are the same.
Silence and
Noise,
No difference.
The same strand
Of thought,
Which gave me
Clarity,
Has recocheted
From the edges
Of my brain.
..
The fine line
Between black
And white is
Now lost in
Grey.
And right now,
Even if you
Stab and say
"Trust me".
Maybe I will.
Right away.
..