FIRST OF ALL
THIS POEM WAS NOT
SUPPOSE TO HAPPEN
the whisper of stars muffled by clouds
the breeze of early night is dry though
slowly softly city humdrum slowing
the tired breath of my week end soul
yearning for the caress of calmness;
to lie down immobile & comatose.
I shut, after a fight of glory, self;
thoughts need arrangement all of–
sudden like my dear books almirah.
I want to organize my words;
their deep whisperings rumbling.
I need silence; want to be deaf
’cause this poem I don’t want to write.
LAST OF ALL THIS POEM WAS NOT
I WANT TO WRITE TONIGHT
LIKE MANY OTHER POEMS
LIKE MANY OTHER NIGHTS
Daily Prompt: Organize