By Pravala Anand
No wonder writers are torturous beings.
The pages they fill,
The cigarettes they burn.
Ruining pages with the atrocious black ink,
filling up lungs with the poisonous smoke.
Crossing out words on paper,
slitting their wrists, as if blood were the only solace.
Love they write,
Hatred they draw on their bodies.
And in the end,
The ugly pages are published into beautiful books,
But all that remains are the scars on the battlefield.