This is the cardiac line.
Your first stop is the
left atrium.
Passengers alight here for warmth and passion.
Please have your tickets ready worn on your sleeve.
We apologise for any delays. This was due to mixed signals.
You are in coach one of four.
Mind the gap between the heart and common sense.

I - Choose to forget,
Choose to remember
Things from my life's history
So as to think "That's [my] Life.", someday.
And what If, Life chose to forget me one day?

Thieving through the multiple strains
Of voices in the room,
Eavesdrops that one conversation with relish.
Looks out the corner of his eye,
Winces at the eye contact.
Curbs his laughter at the
Joke for he wasn’t expecting it.
They gesture to him
With a frantic wave of the hand,
He lets out a curt smile to/at them,
Walks on,
While they wondered
Why he was smiling to himself?

When should I write?
When boredom gets sculpted into motivation?
When a distracting thought
Bothers me long enough
To make me turn to it instead,
With ardent concentration -
Thereby perhaps making it
The topic of my next composition?

Should I risk completing that sad poem
I’d been working on for a month now,
When I’m in the best of spirits, today?
Should I try and imagine
What being happy sounds like,
In an unfamiliar milieu of words
For the sake of completing my poem,
Hoping it’ll lift my mood too?

Should I scribble away
The cold downpour of tears with
The harmless, vicarious vengeance of my pen,
The one thing I half-guiltily hold dear
When my anger endlessly battles with helplessness?
[Or are they not worth being written about,
As many tongues would simultaneously utter?]

Must I write in a state of ecstatic frenzy?
       Or could I have to leave that precious thought
                                   Annoyed, hanging in mid-air,
                                            When a trifling rush of new thoughts
                                                  Crashed my way, making me forget,
                              Why I was holding the pen in my hand,
                                               after all.



                                                      Epilogue:
                                               I think I must write now to find out,
                                               Before the ink of my existence dries out.