I began with the poetry and a purpose
with parts of it filled with memories
I am told to alter it now
to shrug it all off and write it anew
but how does that happen?
how do you proceed when the purpose is lost?
how do you sustain with no inspiration?
how do you thrive without enthusiasm?
with the fake optimism of time that claims to heal?
what does it demand in the exchange of the healing?
and what's the use of that absent-hearted healing anyway?
how does one provide with an incomplete self?
what lesson it has taught ?
what will become of me?
the kadapul 