Picking the pen and book emotionally work me up, after a revitalising rest, I write with pathos.
With a flailing heart and lots of adrenaline rushing throu my veins, I write my 51st poem, then my next and next…
And with a feeling of inflammation, in a reproving manner, I scribble my heart onto a small piece of paper. Thinking in decibels(whatever that means), then this thanatophobic feeling, gimlet eyed I gaze at my surroundings, a serene environment full of sweet sounds and unfounded scents. A frugal thought at each sight, frolicking all through.
The sweet caress from the bed of roses and sea of lilies, I siddle past the thought of suicide and altercations from the weaver birds, looking at the owl with loathe, saffron coloured. Sweating profusely at each written words, at loggerheads with my being..
It all lies in my head, the thought of the write.