By Shreny Soman
The ink has dried out,
Pencil shavings are spilling out,
I'm running out of pages to write.
Was there so much I kept inside?
There's no form, no structure,
Certainly no rhythm.
My pain is tone deaf,
This isn't art, its a prison.
Yet there's something cathartic,
About giving voice to this pain.
My emotions suddenly seem so vain.
I feel light as a feather,
Stopped staying up till three.
These clumsy but honest words,
Have finally set me free.