Whoever said writing's boring?

In the spaces between my last poetry

And yesterday’s countlessly scratched scribbles

Lies an uproar of words and thoughts

That demands to bleed on paper.

 

They don’t really like digital screens

Because I am too liberal in backspacing

Their existence into the void of nothingness

As if it didn’t matter.

 

Their vengeance is raw and brutal

As they howl and tear and slash at me

For being foolish and arrogant enough

To think that I could contain and obliterate them.

 

Exhausted to my bone with their assault

I ask them for the same mercy

They granted to Tagore for turning

Word slashing into an admirable art.

 

In the spaces between my last poetry

And today’s carefully written scribbles

Lies an uproar of laughter and disbelief

That demands to have a reality check.