Potsherds and Clay.

Ruins run to me hysterically calling
My name in astonishment at how I keep moulding,
Yet the ever-so-perfect poetry is weathered.
Beaten down and remains to my mind, a perfect creation.
I never pick up the spins that confuse me,
As my wailing on canvases expose my feeble self.
I’m on a free-fall, sometimes I fall upwards,
For more illusions dance at my feet as the only
Explanation that would befit that is the spirit of my solitude.

Constrictions blaze in me and my moistened heart is dried.
Well, I’m like a blazing river bank – acutely allowing more.
In my palpable innards while I got a single rolling ball to pour forth.
I’m the Lord of burnt pages,
The reigning champion of traumatised hopes,
The frolicking and melancholic king of my juicy dance.
I have peeled open lips that shouldn’t
have been opened,
I have destabilized dormant voices into action,
Yet the church of my words has refused to quote me
From the same godly book I profess to have authored.

I shudder at the dripping ray of light
that disturbs
My darkness, yet I crave it too.
For what seems like a reside, a blissful forte,
Parades turbulence inside me and
knocks me apart.
I seem unable to constitute myself.
Wrenched at the possibility of someone looking up to me,
Reeling at the funeral of words that
haven’t seen the light of day,
But who shall take time and care even an ounce.
I have claimed to write for self, ignorantly absorbing the brute power,
Like in boiling water, only half of me is burning from being human.
As either the rest wants to explode,disappear or burn altogether.
I wonder for how long, what it would take,
For me to mould a firm jar.

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