scripturient: having a strong urge to write
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i took, pen and paper in my dreams
when in reality it just taps on screen
without oak table, cinnamon candles in dark; wrapped in fluffy isolated stark

devoid of piano tunes or nature’s hug
chaotic surrounding for mere escape
to stimulate connections to the moon
silent plead from inner heart, an idea of keats, shelley romanticism
sowed from european philosophy
shakespeare depth, tagore realism

i scribble, words died at my lips;
unspoken, expressed without gesture,
left chances and past regrets deep-rooted, perpetual storytelling

inspired by poetic songs, quotes from novels, contemporary theatres
daily conversations of significant people playing in my head
stirred by someone strange, who will never come back to read these
a heart wrenching truth undercover

i bleed, not write-- obsessively with maddening hunger, never stopping
subtle frustration weaved into art
my unnoticed suffocation, mental breakdowns

collected in the form of manuscript
concise paper's essence, spiralling thoughts of an abysmal world
written by inexperienced fingers, raw wisdom at tender age
many characters of my personality
alive, sad or loving and adventuring

i verse, hymns aiming towards fire
to immortalise the flames in my soul
burning till forever; honed sweet dangerous truth

⚞ ᪣᪣⚟