Underbelly of change

Should i break the mirror
Or turn off the lights,

Should i draw the curtains
Or turn on the lights,

Should i scream it out,
Or mumble the tension,

Should i listen a bit,
Or let the eyes fake attention,

Should i erase it hard
Or tear the page,

Should i fiddle the thumb
Or bite the nail in rage

Maybe i should just be….

Who am i?

who am i…?

a bunch of bones stitched by flesh
or
an orderly life managed by mess

a high pitch nasal throw of an anxious throat
or
a hopeful rover carried by a lost boat

a happiness failed by gratitude
or
a failure bailed by attitude

a body stuck in routines
or
a soul immersed in past

a villain cursed in someone’s story
or
a good screenplay gone awry

a person stamped with expiry date
or
an immature who arrived late…

Nothing left to write – Part 1

When i sat to write
ink was full,
paper was fresh,
but nothing to pen down,

everything appeared,
to have been written,
by somebody at some time,

the sun, moon and stars,
had been made to exercise,
so much,
they forgot their pose,

waves, shores and oceans,
never knew each other,
as words in poetry did,

lips, curls and curves,
wished they be sucked and careesed, if not then at least be harassed,
as many times and,
in as many ways,
as writers expressed

tears and pain,
made tears sad,
as they couldn’t find,
anymore salt to add…

Why so ?

rage doesn’t leave a chance to rant,

then why does an apology evade every apt moment,

love is there and need not be expressed,

then why does hate need to parade,

harsh words and screams,

are we humane just because we are humans?

what about animal instincts ?

to whom only near ones are exposed,

holding us in our lows,

they take sharply worded blows,

we need to think …

before emotions rip apart,

we need to blink …

before the raged eyes cut through soft hearts

Writing_A Therapy

blending emotions in ink,
fingers warm up the nib with scibbles,
till heart is ready to let go,
but once the flow is fluent,
pen and nerves become congruent,

words fall on the paper,
as if celebrating expression,
guilty of trembling nerves and raging panic,
now inked in peace,

they are naked,
no mellow vibes, no mild tones,
as if breathing in a different era and time zone,
making an unfiltered recipe,
it’s not a hobby, it’s a therapy…