Monsters in khaki??

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.

Is this how women feel in india now?

She waved, I stopped,

She got in, my eyes dropped,

She looked uncomfortably for space,

Eyed me, walking in slow pace,

She sat down next to me,

And I turned away my knee,

She acted as if breathing in fear,

As she adjusted, sliding near,

Her eyes doubted my very presence,

I looked out the window; tense,

I felt the negative vibes, broke a sweat,

Squirming in my corner, tried to adjust,

The horn blew and off we rolled,

I moved my arm, brushing her skin cold,

She flinched as if electrocuted by an eel,

Is this how in India, now the women feel?

Unsafe and scared, I just never knew,

She was just a passenger, I was too.