The inkling in my hand
Urging me to jot it down,
A revolt rages within.
My soul tries to breaks the walls of the dungeon,
It craves to be let out;
The pen is a prison,
Paper is the land far away.
Letting go would mean pain,
There is no liberty without a price;
Writing is evil,
Something that I need to survive.
It kills me slowly.
Everything I write takes a part of me while another bleeds and cries in agony. Blunt words dig in slow and deep, distant voices are suppressed, they weep. I am the darkness in broad daylight; Can you touch my soul now? Am I alive?
Writing is suicide.
In collaboration with Shivangi.