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.