Oh my hands quiver as I type,

Something quite polemical, am I about to write?

Uncertain, unsure, nervous and anxious,

Should I not stop before I commit this travesty, this horrendous crime?!

I tread cautiously over each noun I write,

And check my adjectives – are they not too derogatory, should I take out the bite?

I fumble over my verbs and settle for the most banal and trite,

Oh yes, my hands quiver as I type.

Is thee watching my each step,

With thy bloodshot eyes and accusatory fingers?

Would I be locked, burnt or just taunted with vicious jibes?

Oh this uncertainty, it makes my hands quiver as I type.

Can’t they not handle a frank bird’s twitter?

 Or read a face that mirrors an honest book?

Is it really blasphemy, when all we do is to add 2 and 2 to get 4?

Yes, my hands do quiver as I type.

What is art if not free?

Would you shackle the painter and break his brush?

All I know is to play with words, should I give that up too?

As I commit this sordid crime, my hands quiver as I type.

Sixty-five cycles of winters ago,

A nation fought, it was a summer of discontent.

For this very freedom, in the monsoon’s thunderous might,

But still today, my hands quiver as I type.

But why live in fear, why just not shut the shop?

Why walk in the line of fire, when you can bundle yourself up in a cocoon?

Vismay, between a rock and a hard place you are stuck,

Give up, or for eternity your hands will quiver as you type…

This poem has appeared on ‘Your Story Club’…..Here is the link…….yourstoryclub.com