Be it prosaic, be it poetic- it is a writer’s block,
Sometimes it sort of happens, my brush in words I soak,
But when it comes to painting, those patterns in your eyes,
Sailing behind those eyes, my ships simply capsize.
With all the force that’s present, I hit that sheet with quill,
Construct, combine, create- there is plenty of will,
Yet something’s missing, something great,
It’s absconding- my creative tongue as if I ate.
I search for muse in nature, even in random ‘you’
For what I’m dwindling here, there’s no one to sue.
I run around in circles, like moon or like the sun,
Still touch can’t I the surface- this is not done!
I walk voided on ground, the depths are far from reach,
I wish some inspiration could come down and teach
Me how to dig, to dig the gravel till the roots of words,
To irrigate this waste of land, but seed I for the birds.
Too many vague ideas- those seeds fall unto earth
But none succeeds to grow- that’s my poetic dearth.
I beg:- “Oh birdies, leave some for me, please!”
Denied, I wish they turn into a bunch of flying trees.
I wish that one idea comes in the wake of day,
And just before the darkness, I could have my way,
Just before it slithers, catch by hook or by the crook,
I’d care and grow and proudly say:- “It the world had shook!”