Mindlessly scribble.
The mosquitoes attack
Me like puny critics.
It's like a preventive
Attack by state agents,
To control supposed
Damage in the future.
Instead of putting my
Pen to work.
I keep flapping my
Notebook to crush
Them, between pages.
The blood splatter
And black pigment
Of the gut,
Smudge of their
Bodies..
Spread on paper-
Almost looks like
Unintended piece
Of painting.
Like modern art,
The meaning of which
Only the artist knows.
The abstract of it
Screaming, at me-
To take vows of
Silence and
Give up any form
Of expression.
But something in me
Waits for more colors to
Draw better allegories.
And just then I see
A housefly come flying
Towards me.