Subha Rajagopalan



Subha Rajagopalan


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1 min 203 1 min 203

The blank white page

Stares right back at me

Empty, devoid of any feeling

Like my heart

Without any trace of ink

Like my frigid brain

What shall I write about?

I am unable to decide

There is so much within me

Mostly commonplace,

Worthless and insipid

A veritable void

“Nothing matters”, they say, “at the end”,

A clever waiver clause appended

At the end,

The end when I shall be scattered in the wind

Reduced to a handful of dust

Leaving no trace behind

Does anything I do or not do really matter?

Well, looks like it does; right now!

While my heart pumps blood

And the generator in my brain revs up

When emotions come flooding

A tsunami of thoughts comes crashing

Burying me under my mediocrity

My insurmountable dullness

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