And leave them midway.
Then tear up the pages to
Let them rot in a corner.
I suppose, maybe
Regrets get me going.
Like the time I decided
To climb a mountain
And came back without
Reaching the top.
The girl I let go,
Out of sheer arrogance.
When there were ample
Chances to amend.
The trains I hop.
Buses I get down from.
The constant urge to
Escape and leave
Things incomplete.
So ingrained is this
Act of self-sabotage that-
By the end of each poem,
I tend to kill the poet in me,
To hang him in the
Last paragraph.
And if you decide to
Read me next time.
Bring flowers and
Eulogies to offer peace,
To all the unfinished
And incomplete things.
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