Anything, But Not Dead

Dipped in green,

Because jealousy screams.

Who said writers are so pure and serene?

Always remember,

Whoever they are, 

but first, a human being.

Thus, they too are,

Being mean, being unnecessarily keen,

And again subconsciously green. 

So I am a green writer,

Or say, more of a fighter,

Of the goodness in evil,

Of the madness in sanity,

Of everything and nothing,

Since I am Anything.

Not because a writer doesn't die,

But its the words afterwards, 

Which keep him alive.

I sip and suck the sagas around

And throw the legends out.

And poetry, is my love. 

After all,

That is what every writer wants to be. 

I let my pain rot like a grape,

And make alcohol of my ink,

And then,

I just drink, drink, drink.

Not just pain, if you think so,

That a writer's pain is his torso.

Well its more than a pain,

And much more than disdain. 

Its just the sum of,

Little confusion, more blame,

And often, both are lame. 

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Writing for writers, 

Is sometimes sane,

At times insane,

But never is a game.

So I sip the words' wine,

But my words are disgustingly deceptive.

They have power to turn into a whiskey. 

So be it words' wine or whiskey,

The trait of writing is always risky.

Because once the writing knocks,

Everything else goes for a toss. 

You can say, a writer is divine,

But only a writer knows,

How tough it is to define. 

So like a drunkard,

I drink my words, my pain and 

I don't know what.

May be confusion,

But that is what,

A writer's salvation. 

So I keep on drinking but I am alive,

Because writers vanish but don't die. 

May be because, our alcohol is poetry.

Read us or don't,

Believe us or don't, 

It won't demean us,

Nor it would surmount.

But we will keep drinking,

Writing, getting confused and confusing,

Making sagas, and making love,

With poetry.

But we won't be dead.

May be imperfect,

We will be anything, but not dead.