Thursday, 11 September 2014

I write

In the inconsiderate world
too much in hurry to stop by
and peek into the sorrows,
I write myself
in blue dark days,
the wretched unmade bed,
the ill-lit room lights
and in loud cry of silence,
I write myself
On the table pavements,
the sheer mythical curtains.
and on the final books' pages
I write for the people downstairs,
the influential mankind,
the poverty of love
and for that now-changed-man.
I write myself, about
the old astray dreams,
the fantasies of the kid,
the stories of yesterdays
and intents of tomorrows.
I write myself 
in the emptiness of hours
on the surface of the sky
for the crave of spilling it out
about me and them.
And then I delete
the harsh uttered words,
I hide it all
under the undone pillows,
put it behind my own walls
and wipe it off my heart.
For the paradox, I picture
them as the broken ones
and I write myself
the promise of unbrokenness.

1 comment:

Sukhman K Atwal said...

In love all over again <3