With all the rages
And the riots in my head,
I burnt the bridges.
I burnt them all.

With all the overthinking I mastered over the years,
And the words I have gathered,
I verbally exploded.
I said it all.
Unhinged and unfiltered.

With all the quirks I have left,
The tiny swords I crafted,
I poked my own heart,
To let the poison out,
To squirt the venom
And to banish all bad.

I burnt all the bridges.
I cut all the ties.
Standing on the tower of ashes,
I sing the hymns of heroes,
The songs of the gods.
In a whim of my boldness.

My heart aches
For the mediocre heartbeats
It creates.
For the relentless noise
It jumbles and hassles.
My body loathes
The second Monday
More than it detests
The real Monday.
My head mourns
The throbbing aches
My face is half asleep
Raving in the deep.
Yet, my heart unceasingly beats.
Riveting in loud voices.
“I am alive!” It yells.
“You’re alive,” it reminds.
And it aches.
Mere existence aches.
Void survival echoes.
And life continues.
Life goes on.

Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.
Run, cross the field
Before the day ends
We shall drown our sorrow
In the desolate meadow.
Come, make haste,
Do not be late.
The sour of the day,
Cannot stand in our way.
Together, we feast in the hey,
Denying the mist ,
While envisioning the ray.
We drown. And drown.
And then we float,
To the heights and the beyond.
No, this is not a folly.
Nor a waste of a night.
The toils won’t abandon.
The work shall remain.
Yet, before the new day comes,
We shall drown the sad
With the feast of the vine.
Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.

I would’ve poured my heart out
But who would want to see my broken heart?
My bare, scarred, and marred heart?

I would’ve said it all
But who wants to hear the unending rants?
Who shall be interested in naked minds?

I would’ve done it all.
But who likes a do it all?
A know it all?

I would’ve would have it.
But I didn’t. And I shan’t.
Maybe I’m lazy.
Or too busy.

What could’ve been,
Or would have been,
Might have been better.
Or worse.
It is all uncertain.
And that’s a might.

I cleanse my defied soul,
Me defamed, poor, strunged self.
I rinse it on the altar
To edify the blemishes
To brighten the stained smile,
To smooth out the contours
Of my heart, soul, and face.
I cleanse the burnt ashes
Of the days I have burnt,
I rinse my frights,
My worst nightmares,
My raging angst
With a mere survival.
And now I’m freed.
I cleansed. I rinsed.
And I am free.

Whenever my pen touches
The leaves of my notebook
I write.
Unstoppably. Unendingly.

I don’t suppose I’m a writer
For my words keep trailing off
Of my head.
My thoughts, unfiltered.
My heart, crumbled.

But,

We are not writers, are we?
We are imposters
Faking to be writers
We are thieves of moments.
Moments that should have been erased.
Hypes that must’ve been removed.

But,

We write.
With our bleeding fingers,
Into the walls,
Onto the papers,
We keep raining the letters.

I removed my spectacle
Hoping to see the universe
As a whole.
The world
As it is.

Between the dark and the light,
The cold or the hot,
Or between the thought and the act,
There, I stood straight.
In a complete realization.
Or a sense of fascination,
I, maybe, in need
To recede from this body,
To rise and float
In other altercations.

Perhaps the glasses
Were only the start
To see the world
As a fact,
Not a personalised puzzle
Or a riddle.
It existed, exists
Until it halts.
(Or they say).