- Amrit Pandey
My verses cut themselves half
Struggling to abound the meaning they wanna carve
What mind percepts as a fine art
The begotten words fail to portray even a part
Yet, somehow, my pen manages to scribble
Gushing out its fluid sufficing my endeavours
Though meandering thoughts are difficult to replicate
It perfectly depicts how inside of our nerves are implicated
That the red, blue or black glints are the
bloodsheds I couldn’t bleed
That which was stuck inside of me, with every inkshade, was freed
So, even it’s a meaningless prose that I carve
Though my words stumble and fall apart
I will continue to summon up myself and
pick up my shaft
And, pursue on fabricating my being into a sculpted craft.
