Me ThInKs

The poet in me


I was genuinely so worried. I thought I had lost it. Not my sanity which gets lost ever so often but my touch of poetry writing. Its been months since I sat down to write poetry and it hurts. Hurts because I am a poet first and foremost, before being an article writer or a short story writer or anything else. The last time I tried to write a poem the words got stuck and wouldnt come out the way I wanted them to. I had a different image in my head and on paper, something else which wasnt even a shadow came out. I blamed my muse- damn stupid muse who has nothing new to say.

I realised way too late why I couldnt write a decent poem- I couldnt find any inspiration around. Yeah terrorists are having fun creating havoc, the world is getting madder and Angelina Jolie is getting insecure about Brad Pitt; but nothing concrete that can be caught and released in a poem. Then there's the other half of me that says its purely my fault. How did the Romantics and countless other poets around the world get inspired all the time? Because they searched for it. Stopped in their tracks. Listened. Heard. Saw. Observed. Thought. Reflected. And then wrote.

I have been so busy making my pocket money writing articles for so many sites that I forgot to do all of the above. What relief when I sat down to write and this was result-

THE SONGS UNSUNG

Sitting here by myself,

On the edge of this cliff,

I can feel my thoughts wander,

And my heart adrift.

I want to flashback,

To escape into my past,

Drown in my emotions,

Let the hangover last.

I long to hunt out my muse,

Who ran away long ago,

I keep hallucinating,

That she is outside my door.

I want to remember the pain,

I felt when I wrote every line,

The tears that stung and the sorrow,

That felt divine.

The poet has wandered off,

Lost in a forest wild,

Leaving me with nothing more,

Than memories mild.

Where is the God,

Who supposedly gave me my voice,

He chooses to hide as well,

And makes not a noise.

I am not done yet,

I have my songs unsung to sing,

More tales of horror to tell,

Share the sorrows they bring.

My songs unsung may be,

Mere fragments in my head,

Bits that haunt me as I lie,

In my narrow bed.

But someday I tell you,

My songs that lie unsung,

Will take form like,

Honey from my toungue.

Halleliujah!! I still had it in me..