I call myself a poet,
I paint a picture through my words,
But lies my pen now comatose,
Can’t get what is wrong with world,
It wants to scribble agony,
It tries to vent out anger in me,
It cries and tries to write a word,
But ends up drawing geometry.
My pen just wails, hopeless and hurt,
But today its tears just flow away,
Leave the paper blank like the,
Hearts of monsters, who tried to pay,
Who tried to buy the silence of,
The dad whose girl is fighting death,
My pen just wants to draw a noose,
A noose to stop those khaki breaths,
My pen says it knows the fate,
Of the barbarian who sinned and fled,
He will one day be buried in hell,
But what of those who quietly slept?
Is suspension justice enough?
Should they not be hanging too?
They who slept as angel cried,
Trapped in hell, as their tummies grew?
My pen tells me I am a fool,
Drop me, pick the sword and strike,
This system will always sleep,
No words can challenge Satan’s might,
Pick the sword and challenge law,
For law is just the power’s keep,
My pen lays restless through the night,
As khaki monsters go to sleep.