Sunday, 10 May 2015

Never stopped being myself a canvas.

In the standing still
This moment has so much going on
Where the world has gone eye shut,
My writing has kept movin' on...
Two days or three may be;
It has been since I recited
A poem or a piece
On my digital canvas
Yet it feels nothing alike
Yet it feels that -
I have never stopped being myself a canvas;
The mind croons,
It sings, it portrays, it plays
It splashes, it creates, it drools
Several scenes, numerous plots,
Endless twists and nth slots;
Like it stops at nothing
Like it will ever stop at anything
Like a speedy train, hard to recover broken brakes
But easy to pull off its racy tracks;
Blurring the speed is,
Maddening the scenes are
Yet it feels it is my only heaven
Where I live, where I reside
This is my abode
This is my only Side
My writer self is the only Me
I identify
My selfish writer self is the only Me
Which I only rectify.


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