A poem has set
It's pace in me.
Finding a way out,
It's poking around.
It has sneaked in
Every corner.
And soaked in the
Biases I've breathed,
And the opinions
I've consumed,
It has made my
Blood thick.
Veins about to burst.
It's throbbing.
And before it's spilt,
And it's a mess.
Give me my pen.
Let me speak.
Between the
Unsaid words and
The un-spilled colors.
With our ego.
We carved our ways,
Out of a blank paper.
Guess,
Of all the paintings,
We could have been-
We were destined,
Only till the
Blinding white.
On the long lonely,
Sleepless nights...
You come to
Infect me with verses.
I'm vulnerable,
You're contagious.
And like that
I'm a victim of
This epidemic
Called poetry.
I churn my insides
Tie and twist it.
Squeeze and crumble,
Some random thoughts.
Collect and pile some
Stacks of emotional setbacks,
And pack tight some of
My own shattered pieces.
And I paint them with words,
When I play with my emptiness.
Don't mind the shades; they're,
Meant to be, incomplete and obscure.
The ticking of the clock,
Pierce through my sleep.
My prone mind slips,
Into the routine obsessions and
I restlessly open and close my eyes.
Breaking the tenacity of my will
My thoughts capture me,
Torture me to bleed words.
