Exhausted and Spent

the air smelled nicotine

the environ rhythmed with fan

the room, lorn one, curtained dimmed.

I lay looking at the ceiling

the fan with flying curtain creating a shade

a mixture of colors of wall, street and–

overcast May sky.

I’m here, but, I’m really here…

the moment, the silence that I lay in

is truth I think, but, am I not misfit…

am I not the piece of puzzle–

that cannot be fit…

loneliness echo, solitude laugh

my depressed soul–tired one–

thinking what can be done

shall I howl and wet my pillow with tears

or shall I lie naked and satiate self…


all clogging me…all strangling me…

the walls is getting me…


By Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.


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