Eh, who cares?

priyanshi-dass Poems

I wasn’t born to write With every bent petal, and every fallen leaf, my ma’s sweet kisses And papa’s gentle smile I learned to write A five year old me was once fascinated by the loop of an ‘e’ and the playful swing of an ‘m’, The wide smile of a ‘d’ delighted me Words were powerful and mesmerising, now they lie discarded and ignored in broken stanzas of self proclaimed irrelevance I watch the black ugly marks That taints countless sheets of paper They surround me in a sea of ink That once flowed carefully and slowly A thousand thoughts with each single word Drained lies my mind, my breath’s not a whisper but a plea My heart pumps blood not ink, I’m not a poet, it says Incoherent scribblings mock me with their existence As a child, confined spaces scared me But now, a confined mind petrifies me with just a glimpse A pen stays gripped in my hand I wonder what it fears more My inability to let the ink flow coherently Or my arrogant ramblings, regardless And fearless of consequences While I stumble on disjointed verses A paper aeroplane is my best accomplishment In my two hour search for freedom and thought Who cares for pretty words and mystifying couplets? When the idea of a paper boat seems much more exciting -പ്രിയാന്ഷി ദാസ്‌