Silhouettes Of Insanity

By Jyotsna Singh

In the blurry hue of dilemmas of today,

I stand here bare and naked,

I am blatantly vacant when I am immersed in art,

Even more so when ink-spills declare my life.

When I let someone peek into my silhouettes,

Scribbled on empty canvases, that's it.

That's when I'm completely austere.

My smiles heed from moments sprawled on parchment,

My anguish bleeds from my pens, over and over.

I spread myself thin on this crinkly paper all day.

And for what? For whoever do I do so?

You say I must write to let myself free

From the influence of a madwoman,

rifling through her pages all day long.

But what if I want to be the madwoman?

What if I told you, I have become her and she I.

She is as much part of me, as I am of her.

And now, my inkwell births poetry, a new kind.

I believe I must write, whilst being a lunatic,

Not just to be free of my madness,

But to touch, feel and dissolve in it.

Why, you ask? Because I am a mere human,

And there is only so much I can feel at once.

And I'll be damned if I don't allow myself this boon,

This luxury to feel life in its raw state.

Now, the madwoman's heart beats with mine,

In a lunatic's realm, we are entwined as one.

On a paper today I am free of myself.

In all my madness, I do see truly,

In man's range, emotions are pure,

And in poetry's embrace, lies my cure.

By Jyotsna Singh