Today I stumbled upon
my old musings.
They made me reminisce of my old lover's
moist purple orchids wrapped in cellophane.
The wilted petals,
made me recount,
what I felt
when I put my head over his shoulder.
When it all started it was coherent.
My poetry was structured and fluent,
with an aabb ryhming scheme.
However it lacked depth.
Then,
It happened all at once.
Oxygen in room became water.
And I a creature without gills.
I started to asphyxiate.
My poems lost their structure.
Unordered sentences
with inaccurate grammar took all room.
Dark blue was my colour
Slowly other colours from the palette mixed.
Then,
I wrote in confessional style.
I became Sylvia Plath
and my heart bragged- 'I am I am I am'.
My Ariel galloped
and I wished to fall on ground.
Then I became numb.
Like I knew-
the lover was about to leave me.
I started writing short poems.
because tragedy and silence have same address.
Then,
I became turbulent.
I wanted to kill everyone
because this world seemed a cell.
And I a prisoner who has committed crime.
I had committed crime against myself.
I was the last person I wanted to forgive.
I stood on road naked,
indifferent of a car heading towards me.
Then,
the person whom I wanted to murder
became me.
As I reckoned,
We call it a disaster
when there is someone to experience it.
Otherwise its just a natural event.
So I thought of killing myself.
Every piece was a brilliant suicide letter.
Like the one from 'Dear Daddy'
and I was Robin Williams.
I could write letters for planned murders.
As I wrote these letters with blank ink
and inhaled darkness
I witnessed a change,
I forgot to write,
I forgot to record.
Days passed by... And today I read my old musings.
So I pick a feather,
and scribble unknowingly about recovery
Light hits at every angle
and now I make sure to tilt my head.
I, who was a convicted criminal
is now deemed free,
uncharged with all crimes,
my poetry is now free,
however wise.
my old musings.
They made me reminisce of my old lover's
moist purple orchids wrapped in cellophane.
The wilted petals,
made me recount,
what I felt
when I put my head over his shoulder.
When it all started it was coherent.
My poetry was structured and fluent,
with an aabb ryhming scheme.
However it lacked depth.
Then,
It happened all at once.
Oxygen in room became water.
And I a creature without gills.
I started to asphyxiate.
My poems lost their structure.
Unordered sentences
with inaccurate grammar took all room.
Dark blue was my colour
Slowly other colours from the palette mixed.
Then,
I wrote in confessional style.
I became Sylvia Plath
and my heart bragged- 'I am I am I am'.
My Ariel galloped
and I wished to fall on ground.
Then I became numb.
Like I knew-
the lover was about to leave me.
I started writing short poems.
because tragedy and silence have same address.
Then,
I became turbulent.
I wanted to kill everyone
because this world seemed a cell.
And I a prisoner who has committed crime.
I had committed crime against myself.
I was the last person I wanted to forgive.
I stood on road naked,
indifferent of a car heading towards me.
Then,
the person whom I wanted to murder
became me.
As I reckoned,
We call it a disaster
when there is someone to experience it.
Otherwise its just a natural event.
So I thought of killing myself.
Every piece was a brilliant suicide letter.
Like the one from 'Dear Daddy'
and I was Robin Williams.
I could write letters for planned murders.
As I wrote these letters with blank ink
and inhaled darkness
I witnessed a change,
I forgot to write,
I forgot to record.
Days passed by... And today I read my old musings.
So I pick a feather,
and scribble unknowingly about recovery
Light hits at every angle
and now I make sure to tilt my head.
I, who was a convicted criminal
is now deemed free,
uncharged with all crimes,
my poetry is now free,
however wise.
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