I left my mind to wander, ponder, surrender
so I could find something worth writing….
it came back and said ‘don’t trouble yourself’
‘you cannot, not today…’
I stopped… and the few lines I could squeeze out
were all meaningless, incomplete….
but Facebook, the internet,
all needed content
they all start crying….
and I do not have anything to give
so here are the crumbs I could get out of me
again… all meaningless, incomplete
for a reader…. but Facebook, but internet
it might satisfy your hunger for now…..
may be not… but anyway here take it……
She dreamt of rocks that grow on trees
and fruits that lie on the ground….
she took a fruit through at the tree
it fell back, she picked it up and moved on
who wants a fucking rock…
A poem dies, and a poet is born, and
surrounded by the miseries of a writer
she would see life as it were nothing but
a poorly collected choice of words….
She was not an illusion
as he had a clear perspective of life
but she remained a mystery…
to him and the people he knew
An illusion of life deeply cutting
through memory making wounds
in dreams yet to be seen and all
those sleepless night crawling into
the bed for no reason…
When needles penetrate
she wishes she could transform
into a hay stack, and survive till
the last straw is drawn….
stay there hiding the needles
from the damn world and
living till no more is left….
Finally the four walls decides one morning that
they will not enslave her and walked away
from her life….