To perform the duty that is poetry, I sat back on my wooden chair to relive the bygone days of playfulness with words. Its a calm night. As the rains fantasize bout the dreamy moon, So do I, about words that are hard to come by. A forced poetry is like asking an ice to get burnt into ashes. Ashes - will they, ever? I wonder if I am that beggar in the street who is more sure of living the next day than the residents of the high rise afar. Because both of us have nothing to lose... ... and more importantly, nothing to preserve. Sensitivity is like an empty piggy bank when you are like me. You recollect and break yourselves into halves, threes n fours Still they refuse to come; spent n dried - amn't I? I still admire the showrooms glittering in neon lights, the poets who create music with words, the lives that make us dream. And while finishing the undone trial of another false verse, I become too conscious of a missing fullstop (.) in my epitaph. They say, the dots were never require...
Some Memories are hard to hold on So I put them on words.