Black Moods

Satish Verma

I will not beg, 
never. There were some mistakes. 
You took a wrong turn 
hitting below the waist. 

It was a disaster. Asking 
for the moon― for chilling. 
Drugs make you unholy― 
you try to whack the clouds. 

I give, you take. But the 
balance still remains. Somewhere 
we don't meet and part with 
unease of sea waves. 

I am loosening the grip on me, 
let go the legs to take me 
nowhere. Unwrite the poem 
meant for you.