Conception

You might be sitting in your bedroom,
dimly lit and improperly ventilated,
walking down the road, enjoying a drink at the bar,
daydreaming in a cab;
Bored at work, smoking a cigarette in the parking lot;
At a funeral, a wedding or just sitting with your guitar, shredding.

And it hits you,
as suddenly as sunshine hits your face the morning after a drunken chaotic night.
It’s like a machine gun firing words at your brain and you can’t stop it,
How can you? It’s an HMG pointed at your head, firing away.

So you sit there like a zombie,
your fingers moving frantic-
tok-tic-tok, time flies by and you’re left with a piece of paper,
or note on your phone or a page on your laptop, iPad or mac that you just typed through.
Your thoughts, un-compiled, un-puncuated and meaningless;
To everyone else but you.

Poetry, clear as the night sky in the middle of the Atlantic where the Titanic sank, with the titan task left in front of your eyes to make sense of the gibberish that you just wrote so the world may see what you saw in your last moments while you were being executed by the execution of your WordPress.

Comma, comma, period.
Exclamation! Point.
Semicolon;
Double space Double space line break.

It all makes sense.
Still, only to a few.

You lay back now, relax, your head finally clear of the incessant rambling that plagued your thoughts until a few moments ago. At peace.

Till the gun reloads and starts shredding you into pieces once more.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

2 thoughts on “Conception

Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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