. A dialogue with a poet

I am obsessed with writing notes on a table napkin,

But never a poem was written except, a sweet note of inspiration.

it wasn’t even properly compose in a correct grammar or even rephrase

Inside the dark pocket, waiting to unveil the beauty of prose.

I battled procrastination, the reason why I kept a journal.

A  reminder, that I need to keep on writing.

Seating quietly  for hours on my desk and suddenly I switched  to reading a book instead.

I was told to set a goal but, my brain doesn’t cooperate.

Had I not been procrastinating, I should have done, what I have done.

Perhaps, a published book of poetry or a short novel,

But, the last paragraph, caught me hanging.

i can’t even weave words to end the last paragraph of my plot

Can’t even invent a story to put a tragic ending to my novel.

Thinking my imbalance hormones affect my sincere intention to write

And set aside my goal instead.

When my mood change,

The journal I bought, contained doodles of flowers and hearts.

Maybe, the poems and the story that I need to write,

Must be kept inside my heart because,

The words that I have are seared with scars and

Only blotches of ink from tears will be visible,

To the naked eyes of the reader

Because, I was badly hurt.


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