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.