I'm questioned more often

Than I'm greeted.

Their curious jabber taunts my silence

and desperate eyes scope me out for answers

To 'why i don't write anymore?'

I pity my pen and tell them-

my nib has worn itself out,

Mimicking a broken record

Spilling, spattering, splodging

Over and over.

Stains and sentences alike.

The same longevous pattern

Of rubbing itself against the paper,

Like sainty fingers counting the beads of a rosary.

It has grown sick

Of collating and twaddling the same depressive vocables

Scattered at the hem of my tongue

Like mud on a freshly dug grave.

And amounting them to a literary paragon

And so called poetic sagas

Or simply paroxyms of loneliness

Casted into moulds of poetry.

I tell them that my pen often curses its longevity

When it structures loads of self loathing poems

Each piece akin to other

Which is a task next to Satan's.

It is tired of penning down the irony

Of every single breathe, that chokes me out before leaving my body

And every lively word that falls off from my lifeless lips.

They said, paper has patience

But I tell that I'm running out of ink

That doesn't want to take the shape of my sorrows.

I tell them that writing for me, is a battle

and I can't write

Until my weapons want a war.