by Guruguhan Iyer

Now, my hands are tired.

So is my pen,

And its ink.

I feel sorry for them,

For I behaved like a bipolar patient with them.

Sometimes, I held the pen by its neck

To cull out words from my thoughts.

Sometimes, I held it like a knife

And poured the ink like cyanide on my darlings.

And became a mass murderer in seconds.

But still, neither the pen nor the ink were anguished.

They would connect my heart with the dead-white-leaf, perfectly.

I don’t know how they could do that,

Maybe because of the pain that I inflicted on them.

But they did, anyway.

That’s all that matters to me.

I don’t know when I will pick them up next.

But when I do,

I shall behave the same way.

I have no other way.

So must they.

They have no way out.