Lines run wild inside As I close my eyes Irises rummage stories Clutching sceneries and lights Words come close , closer Closing the gap they often leave But poetry ? It chooses to stay a-far . Pricking syllables at my damn drunk backlog Picking metres from My mundane mad dead songs It starts scaring And yes, just scars .
As it Stutters and stops Playing the same tantrum I lose all my rhymes That could rhyme us a reward . Scribbling , Scribbling all my sins at its altar So Tell me my Hooman , If I should give up . If you should give up on what you never had
And tell me, if there can be peace Without War , A peace without a War ?
I never know how to write . Also . I never know how to stay quiet . So ,what do we do to this , my Hooman .