Sam, and his confession.

By – Mourya Koundinya

Sam was alone,
Went to a saloon,
To get the hair coloured maroon,

Sam was calm,
Barber was warm.
Gave him a seat,
Tucked him neat.

Sam was sad,
Barber asked what was bad.
Sam said nothing.
But there sure was something.

Barber started doing the hair,
There was grim in the air.
There was sadness in Sam’s face,
Barber didn’t know what to do in this case.

Barber completed colouring,
Sam’s eyes were watering.
Barber again asked what is the matter?
Sam, with a heavy throat, couldn’t utter.

Sam was shaking in sorrow,
Barber was confused and didn’t follow.
Sam rubbed his eyes and started talking,
Barber, with utmost concentration, was listening.

“I was molested,” said Sam with tears rolling,
Barber, there was listening with his emotion exploding.
“This happened nine years ago”. Sam continued,
“Why are you coming out this late?” Barber questioned.

Sam said “I didn’t know how to express it,”
Barber replied, “You could have talked to anyone instead of suppressing that.”
Sam smiled and said” I didn’t say I’m suppressing it,”
“I’m unable to find a way of expressing that.”

Barber looked at Sam bursting out,
“I know what you are going through,” he said straight out.
“Why do you think I never married?” He asked.
“I fear the touch, even in romance” he unmasked.

“The scratches and scars on my body did heal,
But the scar on my mind, that I still feel.”
Barber consoled Sam with such warm talk.
Its time for both of them to walk.

Sam finally saw the colour and gave a smile,
Barber is away from reality by a mile.
Sam gave the money and hugged the barber,
Barber closed the shop and went to his harbour.

Let us understand the difference between how and what,
So that our children can speak with the gut.
Let us try to provide a voice for on expression,
So that we can speak out everything, without exception.

Published by penfluky

Writing is not a skill acquired through practice. Not for us, at least. Writing is a phenomenon that occurred to us when we wanted to shout our thoughts out. It happened when our brains formed a labyrinth of thoughts with no way out. The only way was to break the walls, the walls we constructed in our minds—the walls which stopped us from letting ourselves out. We broke the barriers using the mightiest weapon, the pen. Writing was our way out of that maze. Words and sentences flowed like a stream of some river, which consisted of A2Z instead of H2O. Soon the river filled the brain and the labyrinth was not visible anymore.

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