Meenaxi's Muse

I write to die, To die after pouring life on the paper, To let the creation be alive And float, stay or fly It’s a process of consumption Emotion, resurrection, consummation But I get reborn, anew, lighter It’s a compulsive murder Killing of the wrath or exuberant joy A constant tussle between the heart and the pen The pen pulling out the words like mining something  It’s a fight and my being looks forward to this struggle To get churned, and after it flows entirely I feel dead, neutral as if That poem never belonged to me I forget the words And read it like a narrator reciting someone else’s words I belong till its birth And cut off the umbilical just after it The baby gets raised in other nests Other hearts And I enjoy to die And my epitaph says And she kept dying happily everafter