Tuesday, 11 December 2018

Writer's Block

Since I've had one for the last many months
I choose to write of it
Hoping it breaks this insane cycle
Where I sit at a desk and my brain screams
Only to come up with blank pages
As though the inkpot of my feelings has dried

It has dried and hardened, not diminished
Making it toxic as it sits inside
The first few words come up to my throat 
Like the bile I feel every morning when I wake
But just as I gulp it before I puke
My backspace kills the chains of alphabets

Even now, I sit here with dwindling thumbs
Staring off into space after every line
This poem has literally no reason or rhyme
As someone who is supposed to have a way with words
I seem to have lost mine

I wish to end the poem abruptly
Because that has been the flow of my thoughts lately
They begin with a hope and passion
And then