you sit to write,
scream out all that is in your heart,
all that plagues your mind,
all that you wish to burn,
but all that comes out is a scream;
And you don’t know how to turn that into words that the world may understand,
and make sense of,
so you sit there,
staring through the white paper or screen far into the abyss.
Your fingers ready to machine-gun-type the first thought that pierces through the screams,
the first words that makes any sense to you,
the first images of you not screaming and pulling your hair like a mad man,
in the shadow of the black smoke drifting from the cigarette, un-ashed between your lips.
And it’s done.
You never wrote it,
it was written while you were out,
and what wasn’t,
shall be scripted when you leave the spaces of your consciousness, again.
For a writer writes his heart
when he’s left his mind in the reverie of his haunting-lustful screams.
and stained in the blood that rushed to his eyes,
while he was lost in the darkness of his limbo.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar