POETRY | CREATIVITY
Ink & Typewriters
Pain, wounds, scars, cigars, guns and poetry
i was in pain,
my scars may not be presented to the world,
but i bled.
they might not have heard you pull the trigger,
but i was wounded.
the world might have been asleep
when you cut deeper into my wounds,
but i was screaming,
my scars,
bleeding.
my blood,
on your hands.
your hands,
wiping my blood off the floor.
the floor,
cold as body laid on it, maimed.
maimed i lay,
not thinking of what my mom will do after me
but thinking of an escape.
escape, I thought,
as i saw the gun lying on the floor.
i reached for the gun
and you rushed towards me,
AND I WOKE UP!
no,
not from a dream
but from my mind wandering off.
there was no gun,
only ink and a typewriter.
there was never a gun for me to escape,
only ink and a typewriter.
some smoked cigars,
some held knives,
some shot bullets,
some blamed it all on the world to escape,
but to escape…
only ink and a typewriter was enough for me.
— Pragya Chaturvedi
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