Writer’s Block. (W
The sun dips its fingers in the western horizon
Paints a hue of purple glaze in the sky
Like on a canvas.
How I wish I could capture
In my blank page.
As the sun vanishes
A dark cloud in the form of curtains rolls over
And blocks my vision.
The first curtain in glittering bold letter:
“Writing? Who is going to read your
My half scribbled papers, crumpled
Fly into my thrash bin.
The next curtain unveiled
again in bold letters
“You’re a bore”
Hope of writing collapses again
My pen slips from my grip
Rolls down on the floor,
My gaze in perplexed mood.
I see only my inner critique
Sneering at me with illusive taunts
While ideas in the form of words flutter again
I promptly grab my pen
To fill my blank pages
And say good bye to
I promise myself not to stumble
into its frozen crevices of traps.
Gentle nudges and consistent efforts
Are now my vital nutrients
To help me hold my pen again steadily.
Let those curtains with dumb bold letters
Hang in someone else’s closet.