Morally dissected,
emotionally conflicted,
courting one dilemma after another,
the writer in me is struggling today
In the anxiety of words failing him,
and in the fear of him failing the words,
a battle wages, enrages,
and as silently as it arrives, it withdraws
And then when one page crumbles after another,
when the mind stutters more,
the ground I had held firm all this while,
resigns, all at once
Maybe this is the best time to write,
to bare the emotions that are grey
and while a part of me longs for you to identify,
a little something, in the vulnerability of an expose,
hopes you never do.
