National Poem Writing Month 2018 Day#25: Write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself…


Once the mother of Cobain says I told him not to join that stupid club…


There’s a hurry, there’s a desperation to have the world on your hand

To be the one standing on the top pedestal of the competition podium.

But, hold for a second why this is needed to be–this I’m the winner or

I’m sad, I’m depressed; let’s get high, let’s get drown; this’s where’s peace.


I once was heartbroken. Very much depressed. Black clouds surround me.

I was drinking a lot; twice, thrice a month. The drug I couldn’t, not ’cause

Am coward but the last promise I made to her no drugs, no thinking of killing self,

no alcoholism (that also include not destroying self in any other avail method).

Yeah, death attracts me but not in haste but naturally; not just in a big way,

but, small way; I dream of an autumn morn less than a decade from now.


Drinking what can I see made me felt I’m king of that moment, there’s no

susurration of her voice or the broken dreams we had seen together to live

forever. There was this calmness. But, after it there was this turmoil; there

was this Kalbaisakhi uprooting my thoughts, my thinkings, myself and me.


I opened an account for the blog here in WordPress and kept it aside ’cause

am in love with the booze and the high of it; the so-called calmness of having

it. But, after few weeks I wrote after two years or so and ecstasy that follow

more calmer than having whiskey, rum, beer and all that drinks.


Now, I don’t drink will be a lie. Yeah, I drink but socially, once or twice in a year or so.

In that place the white page of the blog, the lined pages of diary, and the printed words

of books call me most. They let me bleed through my thoughts, through my words and

exhilaration that follows is, I deny the fact of heaven, but still, I’ll call it heavenly.


Follow Cobain, follow Morrison, follow Hendrix; follow Marley, follow Plath

But their creations, not their life or the choices they had made to be free.


Daily morning after I woke up or when I feel the depression coming up

like the Dementor to drain me out I order my another me to

write my friend, write, let the blue and back-holds pass through your vein

through what you write. People may read, people may not. But, never stop.

Write my friend, write, inked your thoughts don’t drench them in abuse.



6 responses to “Write”

  1. “Write my friend, Write,” pour it out onto paper.


    1. Yeah…it is a message to all who are thinking of the end


    1. Very few of you know why I restarted writing… thanks Cherry for this constant support

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Always!!
        You are welcome 😊


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