Not A Poem

I Scribbled and Scribbled,

I let my words make their own palace and their own destiny,

Their own “identity”

For I was long lost, battling my own struggles, remembering the fights I had with myself and embraced!

I, drew circles, abandoning my many emotions

Was it worth the loss?

I chose to stay back, holding the sky, keeping my broken life close to me.

I chose to stay back with the cranes, the bulbuls that used to visit my grandma often, on that backyard, I learned to walk, to fall and to fly

I broke down, drew the curtains shut and let myself feel the pain,

I tried communicating with them through a semaphore

But wasn’t it too worldly?

I only had my loneliness, my thoughts elsewhere

And?

And, I screamed! I screamed, cutting all my insecurities out.

It wasn’t lethal, after all.

My ears were numb for days,

For it was only I who would allow myself to live again, and not just survive this time.

I kept asking. . .

“Was it so hard to understand my simple poems” ?

In the end, I perceived the truth, accepted it and understood…

My anxiety is just like a tune, a music

Not a poem.