I write words
that mean nothing.

What I feel
I sure can’t find the right words to write.

When the writing is done and I’m wasted,
the words seem foreign.

I wonder why
they seem such an enigma,
why do they feel surreal?

Like an amateur’s parody.
Like they don’t belong to me.

The anxious surge starts to ebb
as the night grows old

The fingers emanate disappointment.
Hungover from a bad bout,
they taste sour bile.

Somewhere between night and dawn,
I drift away to reckless shores

Words find their freedom
and run the show.


Asha Seth