Not knowing what to say,

Not knowing what to write.

It has never been the issue.

Having too much to pour out,

That endless train of musing,

It goes on a journey

From too much truth to heartache.

Putting pen to paper is like,

A vacuum to the heart.

In the end there’s a dirty bag of poetry,

And a soul drained of all emotions.

© Abirami


The Choice

They say this is where inspiration comes to die. Past the dreaded deadline, not a soul has ever made it. One after another they all went into a bottomless pit.. I asked myself, “Dear heart, what about you? Has all this hassle left you down and blue?” Fear not for there is always a choice. Venture out to tread new waters or go over the line another undead carcass. All of life spent in a philosophical stride only to end in literary suicide. Perhaps there is a way, another way. I could be the one to learn the trade and still stay in touch with reality and keep my soul. What if I could actually pull off inventing that role?

© Abirami