Enough


Poet Rose A Karimi

Spilling pen

Truth is,

I can’t recall the last time I sat down to write

Words’ve been accumulating day in day out

Didn’t know that my therapist (poetry) had been waiting.

 

It’s 8:35,I know Its not yet midnight

So am supposed to be ok but am not

It’s on such nights that my being is in riots

Trying to make amends with nature

Battling it out to see who’ll win over the other

 

I no longer count the stars outside

I no longer stare at my ceiling

Poetry seemed like the only escape route but it doesn’t work no more

I can barely stare at my mirror,

I literally lost that courage.

 

Am slowly drowning in thoughts

I feel the heavy teardrops summoned,I gotta hold it,

I don’t think I can let it out

The words that worked magic turned into ache

 

That same ache makes my body ache

The reason for my headache

Doctor said its Migrin

Probably Insomnia.

 

But am busy trying to calm my being

Trying to summon all the demons in my head

The Sparks seem so alive

They keep burning & pushing

Igniting the little speck of hope and turning it to dust

Watch the dust till dusk as it sways by the wind

Didn’t know that it could get this heavy

That I’d sit down and watch the last white dove fly from my window

 

I didn’t know that the sand on my hand was slowly drowning

That the oil on the palm of my hands would run dry.

I didn’t know I’d go through my diary,

Flip each chapter

Watch as the pages go down,

Try and savour each laughable moment.

Turn to my past and ask for a rewind

Turn to future and ask what’s in store

Ask both of them who’s better.

I feel tired of this pepper

Am tired of this era

 

Seek from the holy altar each moment

In utter silence seek answers from within

What did I ever do wrong?

Why do I deserve this?

And finally walk right into my present,

It’s now,am almost ending my poem.

Everything is still the same, curse it!

Why can’t it be a little different.

 

And I slowly put down my pen and paper.

The little hope slowly running Dry from my picher

Another night of unsaid thoughts

Another night of talking to my soul

Resting among thorns yet there’s none to turn to.

They’ll probably think it’s art

But damn it hurts

It sure does,

It hurts,it hurts

It hurts.

Enough,

time to put down the pen

Fold the paper

Try and get some sleep.

©Rose A Karimi

@Spilling pen.254742964010

 

 

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