The paper on the desk flutters,
As if choking to death, of starvation!
A plethora of thoughts run in my mind,
Yet I feel blank, too numb to write.
My feelings lay scattered, drugged,
On the white marble floor of my room,
I attempt to clasp them in my hands,
Fill them in my pen, and feed the paper.
But I fail to pick them up in my hands,
My frail hands pass through them,
Like some soul liberated from the cage.
What do I do now, I wonder!
What do I write now, I whimper!
All the treasure I had, I gifted you,
And all the pennies I earn,
I want to gift them only to you.
Is it the end of me and beginning of us?
Do I have to pay such a price?
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