They call it pichi rathalu,
a waste of ink and time.
But they don’t see the tremble in my hands
when I hold a pen,
or the storm I quiet
by pouring pain into lines.
Each word I write
is a cry I never screamed,
a tear I never showed,
a wound I stitched
with syllables no one dared to read.
To be continued...
They call it madness. They don’t see the pain behind the pen.
