The prisoner

Smoking the last part of the left over cigarette
Clashing with myself over the designs I have crafted
Waiting for my unpretentious fingers to get inspired
The smoke talks to me in codes and tries to tell me something,
I ignore it completely, living life in my hole.

Unlike the desert, this heart is not as crude and unfinished
It’s not like the noon’s brazing sun
This heart is like the cool night’s cool, a monsoon wind;
In which desert travelers watch their last wood burn
And the water’s of their oasis disappears, as we churn.

A small black cube is the art I unconsciously draw
With a black dead pen, on white clear paper
Now I know why I draw it;
‘Cos from inside the black cube room, I shout;
But I have never given it a window, from where to get out.

I have convicted myself to feel guilty
And I have confessed against myself in the higher court
I have enclosed inspiration in a bubble
A great escape from which is impossible
After all, I am the prisoner of my own prison room.

Written on 2nd of July. Was listening to "Little bit of this" by Helga's Fun Castle.