Write ...

writing...
just for the sake of writing
would not fetch a thing
when the hands move along
or rather type and throng
the keyboard
the  thoughts flow
and you write
with a warmth of glow

writing...
just for the heck of show
would mark you as a
shady scarecrow
standing in  a meadow
alone it is
none follows you back
neither gives a  critique

writing ...
just to pour your whole
which has purity and
sans things so foul
just truth and cognitions
 & deciphered mysteries
from the eyes of you
your  body and  soul

write to evacuate
the unease within
write to feel
unspoken zest within
write to express
things unsaid till now
write to write
no facade of  frontal vows

Scars

on the blanched pages of my Body
i have marked
incidents
experiences
time
moments
there are
Scars
bruises
 lines
engraved at places
a kiss
a touch
a look
still etched in there
hate
ditch
spite
isolation
pitched with black

to live is to love
or in the love
i should live
where the blackness came
the source does exist
why the scars are their
on the skin so sheen
they are time begotten
painful and queer
a bath
an eraser
cosmetic lotions
can remove
which have absorbed
down deep?
in doubt
i lay
with the marks
i move
EveryWhere