I have been trying to write
To put it all in words
To get it out in the open
But something is stuck somewhere
The lump in the throat refuses to ease
Words are committing a mass suicide
That weird sensation in the stomach
and somewhere in the area around the lungs
that is where there is a sense of vacuum
I stare at the clock and the hands keep moving
The fog in the head refuses to clear
Should I shout?
Will it then come out?
Is it anger, disgust, fear, horror?
Do the distinctions still matter?
Do dead words still have a caste?
Or it is the same unidentifiable mass?
Will their corpses still have meaning?
And will their ghosts still pledge allegiance?
Will words have an obituary written?
Will there be an eulogy sung?
May be I should paint
to cover the paleness of my face
But somehow the color washes off
Should I scrape the skin off
the flesh would have a color
this paleness is unsettling
But what if the inside is hollow?
Do you know the address of hope
I shall burn it at once
it rots too slow!
