By Prathulya Devi Chakrapani
I'm afraid to pick my quill.
My hands tremble
When I pen down the scribble—
They quaver in anguish,
In vain, mostly in disdain.
A secret rendezvous
With my guitar,
As the strings scar
To the lullabies I roar.
I fear:
My quill's determined spill
Of truths I've hidden—
Coward still.
My creaking quill
Will never fail to act
Out of my will;
It erupts the volcanoes tranquil.
The vendetta and the shots of Beretta,
Debonair silhouette, and the tales of cornets—
There's nothing my quill
Would dare to conceal.
The things I pretend
I wouldn’t care—
Made me pay the fare
For letting them out—too rare.
I orate more than I write;
I stand weak before
My quill,
Unable to wage a fight.
Little did I know—
An orator costs a diligent.
I'm too timid to borrow,
So I chose to stay silent.