The intoxication within is valiant enough to infuse my pen with the darkest of the tales to tell,
My heart is surreptitious at times, hiding even the lamest of smiles,
as I write, the emotions open up like the blooming of bluebells, now I know what all troubled me
The white sheet was dark before my ink decorated it with my diverse butterflies,
The sheet is adorned now conquering the dust, flickering with cuts of heart
as I write, I learn the truth
and so my pen does not break
I write, I write.
Tonight, I have smoked my favourite cigarettes
with curtains drifted apart, I sit here with a glass of my taste
And as this lamp burn, I burn like the melting wax
And I begin to bleed, I bleed on my paper with hot wax on my cold skin
Tonight, the moon is drunk too, the stars are churning my pain
they see me collapsing, they see me drowning
My pen sees it too. It scribbles my inner verses like wounds
scorching like the Thar dessert
My fingers still write, my mouth spits vexatious taste
A taste of my forlorn tale.
I burn my pen, I burn my pen
I slit the paper, then fold it again
only to make a paper again,
And with this clandestine night, I have my companion.
So I burn along with this burning lamp.