I write to die,To die after pouring life on the paper,To let the creation be aliveAnd float, stay or flyIt’s a process of consumptionEmotion, resurrection, consummationBut I get reborn, anew, lighterIt’s a compulsive murderKilling of the wrath or exuberant joyA constant tussle between the heart and the penThe pen pulling out the words like mining something It’s a fight and my being looks forward to this struggleTo get churned, and after it flows entirelyI feel dead, neutral as ifThat poem never belonged to meI forget the wordsAnd read it like a narrator reciting someone else’s wordsI belong till its birthAnd cut off the umbilical just after itThe baby gets raised in other nestsOther heartsAnd I enjoy to die And my epitaph says
And she kept dying happily everafter