I sit on a glass table
some coffee, music

Plethora of thoughts,
a hurricane

I sit, with a pen, open
ready to pen down

a story, a poem, or…
some kind of solace

All I could see, in front –
a blank sheet stained with tears!


I see the Beloved

Somehow a name escapes
Someone on his mind
I turn mad

How someone could adore his lips

I take a dagger
Wound her through and through

A dull ache, I check
My wounds oozing blood
I kill myself

Wounds on my soul

I was always thought as capricious
when I was candid

I was always labelled culprit
when I wanted to make things right!

I was thought to grieve people
when I wanted to console them

I was thought to be brutal
when at heart I was tender

They always took me on face
neglecting my wretched soul

and never did they know about
wounds borne on my soul!