The unfinished poem


This poem.

It’s absurdity,

It’s arrogance to show itself in public despite being unfinished.

It’s as if I wrote this for you. Or you wrote this for me.

Or we dictated someone to write it for us.

I have been meaning to write to you.

In red ink.

As I scribble my words, I feel drunk with power.

But I’m unable to find the right words.

Language seems to have failed me.

I know what I feel, I know what I want to say.

But, perhaps, language hasn’t invented those words yet

Words with which I can express my love,

My desire, affection and addiction for you.

I’m tired of being satisfied with the wind. 

I’m tired of hugging the pillow every time I’m in bed.

I’m tired of the fake solace the dream world offers.

And I’m tired of escaping into the world of fiction.

The poison has spread all over my body.

Nothing can be done now.

Only you can rescue me.

They say, poison kills poison.

I have been meaning to write to you.

But I’m unable to find the right words.

Unable to finish it.

Like this poem.

It’s absurdity,

It’s arrogance to show itself in public despite being unfinished.

Also published in Campus Diaries, an online portal for storytellers alike
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