Writers’ Woe

I cannot write –


I close my eyes to drain the voice of my father screaming out the word

‘suicide’ to my mother and the purple on my lavender duvet

expands to absorb pain; I wrap the sorrow laden

covers around me and call it warmth.


Several words climb up my heaving chest,

so I turn to my side and let them slide off.


I step on crunchy leaves to drain the silence between myself and an old

lover walking next to me and the distance amidst our tangled

fingers widens and drops into a void; we empty into

it leftover butterflies and call it a phase.


A few lines escape from beneath the crackles

so I walk over them until all I hear is quietude.


I breathe harder to drain the whisper of his dewy, familiar, safe embrace

slipping out of the crevices in my memory and his touch reminds

of the space between our spirits; we hold each other

stronger than ever before and call it home.


A couple of verses drum upon his heartbeat

so I move my head from his chest to his neck.


I sing to drain the sound of every two atoms brought together by the cosmos

getting torn apart at some point of infinity and the illusion of

love defying this law fades; I accept nature for being

the sadist that it is and call it existence.


Poems emerge from all the destruction

so I stop creating, and nothing gets broken.


I do not write,

but the universe keeps talking to me

and I can only reply with poetry.



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