Writing is lonely
and I am scared
The enemy within is familiar

I know the teasing tricks too well
Afraid of being scalded again
Afraid to see a damp reflection
that reveals little yet shouts its needs
Afraid of the trailing dirt leaving streak marks
on spotless mirrors of mundane existence
Afraid of facing the truth all alone
leaving only imagination to cover nude sparks
The home is no longer safe when muses arrive
jabbing burning splinters into the yielding core
dumping radioactive shrapnel from wars past.

The words rush as if the school bell has rung
arranging themselves into haphazard patterns
Leaving me festering with unresolved sores
In dark holes ,
in jittery corners
In empty cubicles,
under falling boulders
Caught amidst lightening darts
lifted by emotional twisters
thrown amidst rough sea sharks
The effort leaves me licking my wounds
under the dry autumn leaves.

But write I have to
For these voices need a voice
The muses bare their breasts
The storm awaits its turn
The soul craves release from ties within
Floods threaten to inundate
the fertile existance.

So I throw open the dam gates
Drowning only me.
©Reena Prasad


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