it is not that I
relish running away
from womanly chores and duties
or from missing the writing hours
indeed, I love what I do
but after the routine care of
the family and pet
and complex meetings with
doctors and vet,
I feel a sickness
running in my veins
it is purple in color
and defiant in taste
I have little time left to myself
and even less for papers and
poetries
and if somehow I drag myself
to the writing table at night, then
instead of scribbling words
I hear emptiness,
emptiness shrieking
desperately in a vacant tone.
Stay with
Prerna ЁЯЩВ
