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Writer’s Drought

You write what you like to. You write, taking inspiration from all around you. You write because it’s your hobby. You write to make yourself useful. You write to express who you are, what you are, and how you are. You dream and pen down your fantasies. Your writing does not become yours. You become what your writing is. But what if it all ends? What if you are not able to write again? What if your inspirations turn a blind eye on you? What if you are not able to be you?

Poet: Aabirbhab Naik

My pen pierces primrose thorns

On the tainted fragile skin

Bleeding the paper in blue blood

As I stitch my emotions

Splashed with grey waters

In between lines wailing

Sirens of hopelessness,

My words are too heavy

Chewing lemongrass

Which I plucked

From fields of heartbreak

And create a concrete mixture with

Metaphors brewing in oak barrels

Behind my mind at

High flames of despair

Cascading into a martini of

Brewed poisonous poetry.

Burnt heart soaked in beeswax candles

Adds kerosene to

My mulberry hopes of everlasting love

And gold pink dreams

Dipped in whirlpool of lies

Hung on the branches

Of my wet eyelashes

Ignites a wildfire within my

Scarlet painted soul,

Leaking liquid from a cracked bottle

Of my petrified heart

Baths my midnight to your muse

With shrill violins of my tears

And i shimmer my pain

In the silvery waves of moonlight.

I like the town on rainy nights

When the road under my feet 

Gleams like it was paved with diamond

But hate those times

When i let the diamonds flow

From the corner of my eyes

It was love and humility

That made me believe in angels

But I could not throw away my pride

And that changed the angels

Into the devil.

10,000 languages around the world

Yet my partners lie naked

And unused on my desk

My tears are always there to rescue

When my frozen heart

Can’t find its words.

I somehow managed

Another winter, another

Failed Season without a rain

But my body is becoming too numb

From accepting all this pain

My throat transforms into a cold dessert

I raise my glass to take a sip

But there is blood in the water.

I let my misery pat me down

To sleep

My cries sing me a lullaby

And let this never ending nightmare 

Take over me.

By thoughtstains

This blog page serves as a platform for the Editorial department of The Hindu Education Plus Club at VIT Vellore. We provide opportunities to budding authors across campus to hone their writing skills. We publish blogs four times a week, where writers can communicate their views on any topic of their choice with our readers.

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