Thoughts are on a fast lane,
so fast indeed, and almost blurry,
that I can’t get a hold of them,
or even see the number plates they carry.

End of my pen is deformed.
My anxiety and struggle to frame words,
boils down to fatal romance of teeth and pen.
It’s not that chewy but,
I still can’t crunch the words
and have a Bon Appetit.

Most of the time, we don’t say things.
Some things, which are trivial.
Or we think they are.
Like something I can’t imagine or say,
but I sure can smile thinking about it.

Isn’t this a nightmare?
It’s an artistic disability.
An impeding muteness.
An empty shout!


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