BY KASHAF ALI
Can I ever be a writer, I seem to not know.
I am overwhelmed with emotions, my thoughts are quite raw,
I never cared to admit it, but I have no words to go.
I Wake up wondering in the morning,
I sleep imagining in the night,
I think and think, but nothing seems to fit right.
I know it's going to be a battle, and trust me,
I'm ready for a fight.
Walking around with a mind so sceptic,
At the brink of explosion, it's just too pathetic.
Before I go more insane and erratic,
Maybe I should hide and die in the attic.
In my own sea of fervours, I'm still a drowning fish,
Drifting away far and deeper into the abyss.
I'm scared I might fall, someday off the ledge,
Crying silent screams, into greater void and anguish.
Quite surreal how I'm reading everywhere, what I'm struggling to name,
Feelings are a mess, and my efforts prove to be lame.
Perhaps amidst losing and finding myself,
I'll jump off a cliff to escape all it is, a lunatic game.
And when I say, there is no hope of acceptance in sight,
Those flames of fury within, are yet to ignite.
When quite plainly, I seem to be my foe and do everything out of spite.
Can you please tell me then, how is a person supposed to write?