Poetry

I am trying to do my bit, 
nonpareil. A soundproof doer, 
erasing the palm from the painting― 
drinking the nitrogen from the air 
starving myself. 
 
Cannot bequeath my eyes, 
my thumb vision. You were always 
asking about my sadness, emptiness. 
I will not tell about 
the acid times. 
 
That killing instinct was not 
there. I will give you the 
unborn poems, that would not wear 
the death mask, my unspoken 
thoughts, peeling after the darkness and 
I will let you go to find your path.