Confessions are nothing
except the crumbled bedsheet
you feel too lazy to dust them off,
get them the look of a very new one.
On an extreme sunday,
you found yourself
stuck in the cupboards of nothingness,
you get up, think and choose to clean it
until all its dirts get vanished.
You never noticed the other six days
it carried all the shits
you’ve kept in your heart,
and then forgot the keys to open again.
You not only forgot,
it seems you pre planned to throw
the keys for others,
for others to find and poke you to that
extreme level where you’re too helpless to suppress.
A long sigh! You could’ve washed them off before.
Atlast you noticed and poured your heart
and your confessions are now all free,
just like you rescued your day-off from
the very next movie on your list
and turned your bedsheet
into the pure white one.
On an exhausted tuesday
your voice grows dark,
you are agonizing over
what you never did,
you now feel like
confessions are nothing
but the sand dust loosing
from your grip, completely,
making you tinier in self-loath
and all your hatred stands grandeur
in front of yourself.
“Runnnn”, your mind shrieks,
while your mind starts running,
and your body still remained caged.
You promised yourself
last week to never let your soul
shake hands to the owner of rat-race
and suddenly you forgot.
Now you’re entrapped,
tired writing the pages
they’ve visually stamped on your heart,
a sleek belly, as sleek as a pin,
a clear bumpless skin, whiter than snow,
smoother than marble.
You’re more than just boundaries
made by the humans for the humans!
Now confessions turn
into an unsure destiny,
and you procrastinate to start it off
not knowing the ensuing result.
Confession is an unmapped distaste
until and unless you start hugging
your own pen and write your poetry,
until you kill that very fear of reaching destiny.
Fix it quick until it unfixes your stitched pieces.
Vomit the curls of confession
taste the righteousness
touching your puff belly now!