Yet I write

I write of not being able to write
Of not finding words, of staring at a blank page, of internalizing my fears
My predicament hides a silent evil gnawing at my skin, permeating into my bones
My free verse slowly peeks from under a blanket and blinks an eye of disapproval

With every long breath I draw, I see flashes of being thrown into a room replete with grotesque strangers
With every stifled scream, I see them, you, and some more leaving my pathetic little tent of ordinariness
Yes, I want to be made to feel special because I need more reasons to stand up
Aye, I want to wear a crown because I've worn it earlier and it whispered wondrous love into my ears

The handle to my door of solitude seems to have caught voluntary rust
The rags to my carpet of closeted adventures are tearing off one thread at a time
The twigs of my happy nest are flying away to an uninformed, puzzling territory
And I—well, I sit on a tree with raging fire, unforgiving waves, and tempestuous winds calling out to me

So tonight, I wrestle myself free of metaphors and similies
I float on a cloud with my battered but hopeful spirit
And I write of not being able to write
Or I write of everything but.

Solution

Solution

The smiling relief in playing with the tip of your fingers

The silent joy in seeing you exultant

Of pulling out all stops to escape goodbyes

Of the effort to not blush with your stray admiration--

There's a wire getting untangled,

A musical note finding blissful perfection

A window showing dazzling views through the grills

A painting finding its ever missing colours.

"No don't have regrets", I cautioned myself on a melancholic afternoon

"You don't have regrets", I congratulate myself this unsystematic hopeful night

Do I know the answer?

I close myself to know myself;

Not knowing is an itch, not living is a blur.

I hunt for words to find myself;

But if not living is a blur, is living a curse?

I try, I reignite my senses with a passion best known to unknown thinkers of the world.

Up somewhere, an albatross takes a final flight while a wrinkled face sniggers below.

Here, I wallow in my self-induced misery while an unmistakable pair of knowing eyes revel in their pitiless power.

If power is such a proven tool, is its knowledge not a callous, unfortunate offshoot?

I do have words inside me still;

Expression— I do not.

These words, on some level, have some meaning still;

Manifestation— they do not.

But if expression is an effort, aren't my resilient words worth the effort still?

I hold on to memories and moments;

I rediscover myself with each metamorphosis I leave behind.

Realization often dawns after a million unanswered questions.

Sometimes, all it takes is an alternate life lived in a flash that simply, suddenly whizzes past.

If the befuddled question seeks its direction in the answer, is the answer itself not me, myself?

And then you're alone

There are days you can’t hold back precious silly smiles,

There are days you blare the horns of wildness and let it all go,

There are days you hit rock-bottom and fight with your head against those voices unknown,

And then there are days when you’re wholly, completely, terribly alone.

Memories are there to haunt your agonising dreams.

Scary, monstrous, raging fire- those engulfing dreams.

You sleep off to consuming fears, and wake up to worse.

A morning without sunshine, a day without any life,

An evening of monotony, and the nights- oh, they kill.

Sinking low. Further, deeper, lower.

That ghost of a pit of all that’s unwanted and unpleasant meets you down there.

Laughs a mocking laugh, slaps a stinging slap.

Slaps hard, and inches closer to be with you, be close to you, and become you.

And soon you’re the ghost yourself, the pit- your kingdom of solitude.

And then the ghost leaves you too. Just like they all do.

You run amok, you scream aloud,

You become a withered tree,

You are the grand old sun yourself- aged but you don’t attain wisdom.

You become your own misery.

What will you blame, and you will you blame,

When you yourself are the epitome of pain?

Of course you will faint but why will you complain,

When you shoved this numbness down your own scratchy lane?

Oh, it’s such an itch.

No, don’t crave for company.

Company rejoices with you but company leaves you. (Like they all do)

Stare at the walls, battle with the moon,

Don’t win any contest; just lie crouched in your corner of abstinence.

Don’t speak a word; no, not a word.

Silent, unalarmed, ambition-less,

Alone. All alone.

A blank page's argument

I am a blank page.

Blank, empty, bare, stark naked.

But I am not destitute in my emptiness,

I am not vacant, nor am I a waste.

Scribbled thoughts of those precious meanderings,

Ink-stains of a poet's soul,

Tears of a memory, kisses of trembling love,

I bear the burden and weigh of pure words.

Am I hollow still?

Not a dot on me, yet I am your best company.

You come to me for those getaways of relief,

You turn to me for those vents of pain,

You fall back on me for those furious expressions.

And you keep me pristine, you keep me divine,

You keep me covered in glasses of your steely shine.

Do you find me forsaken?

Questions of befuddlement, candid confessions of wild desire,

Answers to feared voices loud, and a cooling sheath to a raging fire-

You put pen to me, and you make love to me.

Passion, gritty passion.

You look up to me, and you can't set me free.

Selfish, they say. But is this not love?

You abandon me too.

They all do. The best of them do.

Crumpling me with miseries of yore,

Soaking me in layers of shallow skin-

Gnawing, gnashing, biting off every bit of me.

Bearing the brunt, shedding a silent tear,

I move on, and I stay on.

I stay. Don't I?

I am a blank page,

But I am not you.

I am an empty sheet,

And I am every bit of me.

You, me, and the wall

Closed walls,

For you, me, and a life so blue.

Denial,

Of, for and from all that’s true.

Hold my hand but don’t come too close,

Sing me a song but don’t be my tune,

Decorate my life but don’t be the petal of a rose,

Slowly, surely, these walls will engulf you.

Ask me not what you already know,

Don’t prick at what you know I never can show,

Emotions, celebrations, sins and sensations,

They run to the wall and are trampled with a blow.

These promises they talk about are theirs to conjure,

A magical reality is ours to procure,

Dreams and reveries and secrets shall rule,

But the wall will come back and we’ll have no clue.

Stolen glances and sudden smiles,

Entering mellow thoughts and breaking free,

Catharsis of a zenith and ebb of times so low,

Ask the wall, it would know.

Warning you is as far as I can run away from you,

Puzzling myself is as near as I can come to you,

Shadow of a footstep is as much as they can see,

Breaking the wall is as close as we can be.

Don’t you love the rains?

Leaves of a tree that once slyly shed them away.

Puddle against a murk that once claimed to reign.

Falling in abundance, taking trips of a faint nostalgia,

With that lovely melancholy, yes, rains are here.

Look at that little girl enjoying her first rains,

Her father at the side-step, holding her umbrella, as she dances without inhibition.

Smile with those boys playing the best game ever,

Wiping out malice with the mud-lords they hail.

And that first brush of romance,

As he flicks her wet hair away.

Or you, you of that redoubtable cynicism,

Walking freely, with that joyous gait.

Come, let’s sit by the window,

And hear those tales of yore.

Let’s go down the memory lane,

And revel in songs sung ages ago.

Coffee, tea, cigarettes and ash,

Some love lost, some betrayals had.

Go stain those whites with those mucky, muddy trails,

Come, lose yourself, let’s enjoy the rains

Untimely showers, let’s complain.

Drizzles of delight, they’ll wash the pains.

New stories unfolded, let’s live again.

And you tell me you don’t love the rains?