Woe of words

I am constantly slashing words away,
I wrote yesterday and I wrote today,
It has gone for as long as I remember,
And it feels good to write,
I write to feel the God in me,
I write to fill me with God,
When I have pen and paper,
I write and then I chisel my words too,
Always a slash here and slash there,
And when my poem is all patched up,
and dainty, I read it aloud to my lover,
Who doesn’t see the suffering I inflict,
On my little verse,
I punch the keys on my keyboard sometimes,
The chiselling is more surgical,
And its only me and the poem sharing secret,
Of what transpired between us,
Long after when i have nearly forgotten,
The poems haunt me in my dreams,
Because I didn’t even read them aloud to my lover,
So I wake her up at 2 am at night,
Taste the lingering sleep on her forehead,
Make a cup of tea and bake a cake too,
And then read the haunted poem,
The justice half done,
I curl up with her and we sleep,
I sleep in peace,
The God but beckons me at difficult times,
Sometimes I have nothing to put the words on,
But I write anyways,
I write in the crevices of my brain,
The slashing more metaphorical,
Going on subconsciously,
Snapped and shaped by viscious knives in darkness,
These fleeting couplets,
Only stick as images,
The words too deep to recall,
Too unstable to bring forth,
The poem that’s made,
Cries deep down,
His pleads laughed at by the God who summoned them,
And I, the device, the corporeal culprit,
Can only empathize,
And keep on writing,
And slashing,

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