Far beyond the maze of words
That ensnared him into loading his pen with ink
And made him run it over
Sheets as fresh as blades of grass
There is a boy who doesn’t want to write:
His whole life was about putting his thoughts to paper
And letting them bleed till they materialised into
worlds that existed only in his head
And sometimes behind the doors he closed.
But now he lays down the gun
With which he shot down his demons
Whose blood made the stories his heart sang for him
And says that he
He doesn’t want to write.
He hid his journals somewhere out of sight
And thought he could let the pain out of his mind
And try he did, and die he did
The death of his brightest smile.
Like a bird who built her nest into a cage
In the confines of his own mind,
The grey walls bare and unforgiving
His palms pressed against them, feeling for a crack
Waiting for some light
The boy says he doesn’t want to write.
His faith hangs onto a fraying rope
Despondence breaking the dams to rush into a river
Of sorrow, of the inability of words
To tell himself what he wants to speak
Or to tell me, through his letters
The little windows to his soul,
The musings of his mind, if it were musing at all.
Sometimes his mouth opens
And he lets me trace the words on his lips
They sing, to the tune of his melancholia
That dejected, he doesn’t want to write.
The boy sits alone in his cell
Mulling over the things he left unsaid, unwillingly
Rolling them into a dough of handicap
Eating them up, to keep himself from retching
The liquid remains of his shaken hope
Heart suspended from the very same rope.
Now the tears well in his beautiful eyes
And the ink of his poetry runs dry
He curls his mind into a fetal position
The poet says he doesn’t want to write.
I’ll do it for him.