I always trusted you
Thought you could convey what I have kept hidden
Underneath my skin for years now
For you have done so time and again
Poets have written their saga nonchalantly
As if you were their own creation
Oh dear! But why me, what did I do
That you abandon me in high sea
Of turmoil and wrecking emotions
While you could put me bare open and let the world read
What I have scribbled upon my flesh
As I did always, while getting high upon smell of
Yellowed pages of old books, how magical they used to be,
Oh!
And as last drop of blood dries
Upon the nib of pen, I still await
For you to consider my mercy plea
And turn my life-imprisonment
At-least to death penalty
For may be scribbling upon my dead body
Would be able to draw your attention
May be one day you would find my scribbling
And give them your shape and soul
And they would turn into words too
I shall wait, until the night comes
When my fate would be sealed
And I would be asked to rest my pen
Upon my coffin, this shall bear no name
And I shall rest beneath an unmarked grave
Only to be lost beneath the world of words
Deprived of poetry and tales
In perfect oblivion of a life it could have
Upon a blank paper once, alas!
Praveen
Parasar
03/10/2016
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