I like my poems complete
While the thoughts remain incomplete
I like my poems complete
atleast them
There lies a poem
Actually not a poem
words
Probably I can call it that
word strewn on the paper
Written out of spite
Written in response
but it stares at me
incomplete
like the anger
I try to spit them out
the alphabets
but it seems futile
the act
the poem
The incomplete poem
smirks at me
at all the attempts to close it
triumphantly
I try to destroy it
but fail at it
miserably
and it stares at me
the poem
the anger
While I move on
It lives on
unfinished
forever
