Why do I write, darkening rims of paper
Alphabets with live curvaceous crawling character
Or is it downloading of a mad-mans dreaming software
Or an effort to purge and cling an ongoing nightmare
Sometimes it is a celebration of the present real
Or the star like memories dotting the dark mental stress laced with images surreal
Perhaps there is no one to read and understand this copious out pouring
But, is my creation pointless? Because there is no appreciative listener to heal wounds real or unreal.
So my writing has multiple reasons
Sans reason and compelled to write even without any aesthetic inner seasons
It just happens and expresses like everything in nature, or to escape an insecure emptiness
Something is aching to actualize and release me from variety of prisons
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