Often I pick up the ink
to mould it into the words
write my heart out &
let the pain flow like birds.
It starts with huge war
strangely after three lines, the war stops
silence of thoughts spread like white smoke
and I just don't get the next rhyming word.
Often I pick up the ink
with both hope and despair
hope connect the chorus lines
and despair connect the inner soul
& once again just three lines, once again I had to console.
Because of the voice ‘don't give up', I’m again holding the ink
trying to connect words like the branches of Rowan tree.
Tell me -
Don't you feel this too as an incomplete poetry?
Shri Ram:)
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