• harshad09 6w

    Very often ,
    In all those dilemmas ,
    Of to write or not to ,
    I'm unable to decide ,
    even that with a coin toss ,
    And this renders me incapable to adjudge
    Whether it's a bit profitable or a great loss
    But still , in every light , I choose to write

    I choose to write ,
    But , for , nobody I am expecting to read
    It's just because ,
    I want to elope the mental grid
    I want to throw away , burdensome fragments ,
    that of thinking and brainstorming
    To break all those thought processes ,
    to break all those barriers
    To dump all those emotional carriers ,
    For , they always fail , in thrilling me
    For , they regularly succeed , in killing me

    They kill me ,
    Without weaponry , with bare hands ,
    As like , they're going to throw
    my dead body on barren lands ,
    Now , doesn't that mean ,
    this imaginery is cruel
    Or , does that mean , my livingness ,
    it's their only fuel

    But , my livingness can't be some fuel ,
    For , it isn't volatile or combustible ,
    Neither it's fragile nor susceptible ,
    And my thoughts ,
    they are somewhat ugly or a bit murky ,
    They're always a bit obscure , almost dusky ,
    Their caliginous odours spit out just dark ,
    Their rayless existence ,
    why , it's always upto the mark ,
    Either they are my musings rave
    Or they originate , from me , my within ,
    Like coming from the blackness , stygian ,
    That of a cave

    Be it so ,
    But these darknesses ,
    they're lucent though
    For they seem to be capitalizing ,
    on killing the glow ,
    Creating wondrous formations ,
    of debris , hollow ,
    Rejuvenating opaque dreams ,
    from depths , shallow ,
    Garnishing them ,
    with a pretentious mellow ,

    This pretention , it creates , for me ,
    Limpid Mirages ,
    of some soothing Light ,
    Faking to empower me ,
    for a Dreamer of a flight
    Highlighting just the myths ,
    hiding whatever is right ,
    Resurging me ,
    with intermittent bubbles ,
    of confidence ,
    That's short-lived
    and that throws me open , once again ,
    On the same barren lands ,
    under the glimmers,
    That of the silvery moonlight

    This moonlight
    and its coruscating chrome ,
    It spangles my heart ,
    from deep within ,
    Glimmering the sand
    at the banks of those barren lands ,
    Embellishing them ,
    to look pristine or serene ,

    And there comes the power joint ,
    For , this happens to be the turning point ,
    That sparks for me ,
    just like things , as to anoint ,

    Converting the stark of every Dark ,
    Into the most scintillating ,
    of all the lights ,
    Honking the doldrums ,
    fighting off , the despondency ,
    Clearing the flow , of the drain ,
    Like showering some stardust ,
    Pushing me further again ,
    Just to reassure me and myself ,
    how it's unavoidable and must ,
    To write , to write , and to write ,
    Even with that least available Light