There are times when I do not like to write
or read.Anything between the lines emerges from the paper and hits the floor without making a noise. Barefoot words cross the borders of my imagination, but abandon when I try to grasp their feelings. At times like this I wish I weren’t a poet. I wish I had proper feelings for the world. It’s injust to throw all the burdens and expectations at my side without asking for my permission. But do people really care for consent?

I guess they do not.

I don’t know if I feel anymore or if there is a space between these words from where poetry can rise. I don’t think I can think anymore. All the neurons of my brain have expired and all I remember is a vague memory of words, my words, my honest words. Writing feels like a difficult task when you haven’t explored anything and I do not write about past. This brings me to the fact that I am not even breathing the way I was told to. I consider this a privilege that I am still alive even though last year was a direct hit on my mental capabilities. I am sorry if I make no sense, I was never supposed to. All this time I have learnt one thing – poems are sometimes paper weights, they do not allow your feelings to escape while pressurising you to write. The weight, if neglected, can leave the scar on your paper and if approved, can happily allow you to find beauty in that scar.

To write about deepest wound is easy. I have many and I still do not write. Perhaps I have found a difficult way to deal with everything and I hope you know it now.

©Sameera Mansuri 2020.

The post first appeared on The Poetic Elixir.