October: An unfinished poem
Glamorous lightweight raindrops
from the October sky keep
my swollen heart in a secluded
place, mostly on Sunday nights.
These readymade, numerous notions of
making
progress, at once, turn my methodical
garden of words upside down and
i end up getting the constant feel of
being one of the most miserable pieces
on this planet, called Mother Earth.
Truth be told, while feeling
an abrupt urge of being a perfectionist in
words and creating suspense, i keep on
building
up a mock-epic out of my legendary hours
spent on endless failures in this
line-making process.
The regret remains and also prepares
my sanity to head over for a long holiday
and turn my bedtime stories into like
an impure incense to
spread their vaporous nuisance all over my overwhelming chest.
The reverse energy to fight the fear of being a loser at the climax point of writing does not seem to make my heart happy
at those miserable hours with scribbling.
Thus, my nights are put to an improper
sleep and i have the most horrible dreams
about the funnel of my insane voyages to fantasy
and
let me tell you beforehand that every freaking time it only leads to a long time to lament until the discovery of a new story.
Purbita Das is currently trying to find the lost pieces of her existence through words, at the same time, doing her post graduation in Applied Linguistics and ELT at the University of Dhaka.
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