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

The Art Of Pressing Flowers Between Books

Did you read a book you loved? 

Are you still hungover, intoxicated by the masterpiece of literature that it was?

Are you still under the spell of the words that told you a story unlike any other?

Walk out of your home, close your eyes and recollect everything you loved about the tale. 

Relive the pages that you had felt between your fingers. 

Now look around. 

Do you spot a flower that reminds you of the words that are still fresh in your mind? 

Take the flower in your hands.

Inhale. 

Let your mind entwine it with the story. 

Feel the petals like the pages. 

Let the flower accept the story.

Open the book.

Put the flower in gently.

Does the flower fit in with the story? 

Does it signify everything the book stood for?

Close the book softly and press the edges together. 

Let the story accept the flower. 

That is the art of pressing flowers.