I once wrote for others,

chaps so full of literature,

they would puke sonnets.

Women with legs

wearing beautiful stockings :

undiscovered ballets,

But they never read.

They were so full of themselves

and full of entitlement of life.

And I wasn’t full of myself anywhere,

anytime,

It took me a year of my life

to realize that

I won’t be full of myself

anytime soon.

You fuckers reading this.

Let me know,

When I’m Done.

with my writing.

Write a Memoir,

If you can,

You heartless fucks.

Shashank Bhardwaj