And then he'd pick up the pen,
Hoping he'd come up with lines that would eventually reduce the suffocating feeling built up in his heart.
But he'd often get lost,
Trying to channelise it all.
His head, like a battlefield,
Full of injured thoughts,
And sacrificed memories.
His heart like an abondoned town,
Full of burnt up emotions
And vacant spaces.
He'd sit for hours together,
Trying to maneuver everything into words.
Words that would show the world,
What it's like to be him,
What it's like to go through what he's been through,
What it's like to be a messed up writer.
But he'd always fall short,
Short of the appropriate words!
And then, he'd quit,
Listen to some good music,
Tame Impala, Pink Floyd, Three doors down, A.R Rahman.
Have his favourite cup of coffee,
Or a thick shake probably.
Take a stroll into random streets,
Try and meet some strangers,
Talk, try and understand,
How do they lead such a normal life,
Amongst such chaos.
Gazing into the wilderness,
Trying to find the appropriate words.
Come back home,
And then he'd pick up the pen again!
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