The day was ready
To be seized at 9:30 AM.
I always wake up
With the sun already hoisted. Sometimes it pains me
To wake up after the sun shines.
The sun’s streaks escalate
Over the desolate cage
Of my cat, that knew nothing
Of being carnally surreptitious.
I write everywhere.
Upon the tapestries,
In a mall,
At school,
Wherever the urge,
The trance
Enmeshes me like wild ivies.
One time, I wrote
Something about
How wretched we are,
And one told me,
“Sir, congratulations on
The writing! Keep it up! ”
And the sorry bastard
Fled without even telling
Me what he made out of it.
And then,
At one sanguine moment
In time, I wrote
About how overwhelmed I was Tethered to another
And I let her read it
And she said,
“Could’ve been simpler.”
The lady killed
Me in a literary fashion.
It was like hearing a world renowned Poet thrash your works.
And at night, I am a hunter that feeds
On the moon’s agony.
I write
And write
And take long pauses
Smoke a cigarette if time
Permits,
Or just sit lifeless
On a persnickety chair
And write again.
Some nights, 15 deaths.
Others, Only 3
Or worse, None.
I write
Until I exhaust myself
And my mom checks on me
Whilst saying,
“Go to sleep,
Or I’ll have to call your father.”
But my father does not
Entertain
Late night duels.
But when he’s
Wide awake,
He’d tell me,
“You get nothing from this.
Focus on other things.
Sports.
Working out.”
Etcetera
Until he vanquished himself
To sleep.
It’s not that I hate them,
Nor all of you.
It’s just that sometimes,
When I write
It’s like talking
To frozen pillars.
To sleeping trains.
To barren terrains.
And I surmise
It would always be
Like that.