Full but not yet fulfilled
Spoken but not yet heard
His mind, could barely
Protect, from thoughts so dreary
Scene set to dark and scary.
Dipped in ink
Dripped with fear
Trembling feet of words, sent
Stumbling down the stairs
From his head to his lips
As they whisper in his ears
Filling the placid paper
Decades of decay, conveyed
In an unpleasant manner
Elegance doesn't matter!
He screams to himself
Sentences of sanity, calamity!
"He has woken"
The voices despaired.
Rolled up weed, the summer breeze, forgotten
Ignorant bliss has begotten
Uncensored unchained thoughts
Now he is,
Too free to hold back
But then again, new mechanism kicks in
Guarding, from his naked self
Now he screens the scripts, keeps in check
In contrasting colours of pen and paper
He observes the conflicts of his nature
Abstract.
He writes about nothing,
Yet everything about himself
That is why, he remains unfulfilled, and unheard.
