How much sentimental trash will you write, she exclaimed,
your bongness will be the death of you.
Every tragedy is sepia-colored,
your words drip with hurt,
you and your sappy characters
sulk at imagined hurts.
You carry your sling-bag like a jhola,
& your eyes have that faraway look,
as if we have no place in your world or
you'd rather be someplace else.
You bleed copiously without a vein being cut,
tears brim forever at water-edge,
and the world's pain is in your heart
but your lover's pain mere literature.
So be a man and drown alone,
leave us with our plebian concerns,
contemplate on the lees of life
as we frolic .
No comments:
Post a Comment