Birth of a poem

This is the fourth and the final poem in the anthology of poems called Lifecycle of a poem.

My taloned hands

my bony 

fingers are itching 

to dip themselves in the 

ink and 

paint 

a visceral picture of 

pain and 

beauty and

all that there is;

Chaotic thoughts

in my resplendent mind

is looking for a vent 

a small window,

rushing and pushing them

to get that whiff of air

A word, drop 

dripping here and there 

marks and maps the trail

for my salvation

for my ashen heart

and an

opulent window

for my dreams and desires

A fistful of angst and sadness

poured and rubbed over the pages

molds and shape my

unspoken desires

born naked on the 

nape of my neck

giving voice to the

unborn voices 

in a million tongues.

You can lick, suck and 

soak yourself

in the exuberance of the 

beauty 

I’m carrying within

Before I write and spill

my eternal love

on the few 

pieces of

that yellow faded

papyrus,

I call

my

poetry.

–Megha

Photo by Bogomil Mihaylov on Unsplash

P.S Below are the links to previous anthologies I have attempted. Take a look.

Seven Deadly Sins

Elements of Nature