I was writing

I was writing a poem,
but then I fell asleep.
I couldn’t even stay awake,
to pen my own mystique.

I was writing a poem,
but then I got bored.
I couldn’t even stay alert enough,
to pen tales of nights I’d soared.

I was writing a poem,
but then I disappeared.
I couldn’t even etch the gravestone,
of someone I revered.

I was writing a poem,
but then I saw myself.
I couldn’t even bleed the ink,
to fill this bottle on my shelf.

The one I use to write,
the one I use to wet my quill,
the one I use to free my heart,
the one I use to fill;

Fill my love,
fill my heart,
fill this hole,
that tears me part;

This hole in my chest,
this hole in my head,
this hole in my music,
that keeps me un-dead.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

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

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