I think, as upon my bed I lay,
Why do I feel so lethargic?
(What lame verse this ,you may well say,
Sad failure at being iambic)
Longfellow, Tennyson,Keats and Wordsworth,
How did they find it so easy?
To put pen on paper,and have words rush forth,
Making sense,also fitting a rhyme scheme!
I try conjure up thoughts to record,
To inspire a burst of poetry
My mind’s in a rut, nothing strikes a chord,
And I drift into a nap of winks forty.
My dreams, as they are,no ideas bring,
Filled with chaotic plots and confusion,
I dream of nothing worth describing
Nothing which merits mention.
A whisper on the wind tells me
“Write of war and glory.
Bloodshed and gore have always been-
Of great interest, and also make a good story!”
“Nah”,I think,”What do I know of war?
I was born after the Kargil!
And even if I did,I would not mar
Peaceful thoughts with evil.’
“Then talk of love and heartbreak”,
It says, “it’s bound to be inspiring,
Reading it may well help make
A new love story, still budding.”
“No”,I say, “ my heart’s not broken
For love I’ve yet not known,
And I’d rather be famous and spoken
Of,as a happy poet,than forlorn.
Then, on the window my eye falls,
And I glance at the garden below,
The breeze,blowing softly,calls
Out to me,lovingly caressing my brow.
And I think of joys I have known,
Of experiences good and funny,
Of trials passed,good deeds done,
And the blessings gifted by many.
And so,I finally decide to write,
About things which make me happy,
Which may lift someone’s spirit upright,
And prevent them from going crazy.