The Writer

By Suhas Reddy

There's so much to say

And yet there's nothing left,

For everything's been said.

Feelings gushed like blood

From a deep cut,

Now all dried up and insignificant.

What's one more word

One more wound?

Droplets here and there

To step on as we shuffle

Along empty streets,

Scattered leaves and useless trash.

Swept away only to come back

Again, and again.

But no one sees

The trail of blood even if

Pointed to. Because

Who listens anymore?

Who really cares?

Sans the frenzied reaper

And quiet the writer

Whose pen draws blood

From gaping wounds and floods

In the pages of his tortured mind.

By Suhas Reddy