Thoughts are flowing around me–lots of it; but, words are not.
As I look at self in the mirror, I see am smiling at me; silently questioning–
Are you capable of writing s’thing that’ll define the morning outside;
Are you capable of giving your thoughts the perfect words they need…
I hear a voice; it’s my muse–new; she’s begging to write of her against my will.
The poet at mirror laughed and said you’re not capable of writing s’thing–
’cause thoughts are there, but, words are not; he again laugh.
My hands are numb, my mind fogged up,
My soul yearning out, muffled scream it is, to speak out the turmoil it’s feeling…
But this winter morning, I’m not capable of writing s’thing–
Except these few gibberish, I think the perfect word, lines with the words–
That pop out of mind with the progress of time, while, writing this poem…
Come, the coldness of block engulf me so that I can write to find the warmth,–
So that I can feel again capable of writing a better poem than this…