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Whether it be pen to paper ,

Fingers to a touch board ,

Or giving life to flamboyant soul ;

My fingers Itch . 

I crave to write ;

But it draws to be unwritten .

Legacies and delights 

But it crawls through the bitten 

It’s clear the more you live , 

The less you’ve actually lived .

And the more you educate,

The more you actually suffocate .

I see through sacrifice and lies ,

The way Hanuman carries away the ties 

I see books and beautiful wives 

In their own moral disguise.

We cultivate our evils , 

They cultivate our pride 

Feed off from the greed ,

And leave us, off to breed .

Seduction and fantasies made multiple as he ;

Mustering the courage to pull back rubbers on trees .

Rather than intimidating him of being himself,

Why not instigate self-disciplined hymns to the self ? 

Blame it on a plane he says ,

Blame it on a man she says ,

Blame it on the devils they say ,

To hell with all that , I’d rather have it my way .

-Vinayak Madhu Menon Ravunniarath