Heavy on the shoulders
Tasteless on the tongue
Running off the eyes
Complaining in the throat
And settling within.
What a day it is
While being pulled down with imaginary weight,
Every ounce of the self ensconces on to the gravity
Realizing that they understood English
When they christened this emotion “Depression”.
What a day it is,
Some people speak with a tinge of despise
Some remain muted with the despisedness guarded
Not willing to communicate
Leaving certain confessions to remain uncoerced.
What a day it is
When one is unsure of everything,
What to say or what to eat
What to think or what to believe,
What to do or how to do,
When there are units of labours,
Chores that cannot be ignored.
What a day it is,
When fingers type away at a pace,
Without making an attempt to create something,
Trying to garner the thought overflow
Into insufficient words
That the nomenclature tenders.
What a day it is
With Every inch giving up
With having all strength departed
With all inspiration lost in the ether
With the sixth sense soliciting a sweet escape.
Maybe in the end,
It will all conclude,
There still is a tiny spark,
Somewhere within,
Like the last consequence
That flew right out Of the Pandora’s Box
In to the crowd of the squirming and writhing
To offer a modicum of solace.
Oh what a day it is.
