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<i>
I keep thinking about writing for many days,
I wait
But one day all my efforts to write melt away in the effort to stay alive
They rot and perish in my hunger to remain in the world
The news often preys on poems

One night when I am immersed in the last layer of sleep
When there is no space left even for turning
At that very moment, at midnight, some unknown dark tunnel whips me and wakes me up
An entire market of words wraps my soul in greed
In my sleep, I hold the ends of those letters and keep them tied to the pillow
But a magical end of words twists my sleep and strangles it on the bed itself

My sleep turns into a grey pigeon
My night becomes a piece of white paper
On that piece of paper, I want to become like a book
I want to spread out like a poem
I want to become a cumbersome essay in this night
Or an endless, slow, stagnant It became a novel

What would be the situation in the cemeteries where the world's dead writers are buried
I push this midnight sleep and throw it into a deep ditch
I see that everything is already written here
Early in the morning some shopkeepers are writing roses
Mogra and jasmine are writing
Some people are writing ways to go
Some are writing to return

The night is writing darkness Crickets' sounds
Rooms write sleep and tossing
The afternoon writes yawns
Women write the seasoning of spices
Children write schools
Newspapers are writing murders
Darkness writes crime, Watchmen are dozing
Some hospitals are writing sirens
The walls write screams

God's eyes at midnight We are waking up tearfully
Hands are writing lines
Fingers are writing keyboard
Mind is writing past
Eyes are writing wait
Heart is writing love
Body is writing destruction
Lips are writing prayers
Age is writing death

I am writing her memories here
She must be writing sparkle in her eyes
Moisture in the evening
I see that it is difficult for me to get bail
The whole world is a conspiracy written by her
</i>

Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day 😊🙏.   @vikbuddy

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