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.