What do you do
When you're just not inspired
And your mind
Palpitates to perspire
Literary magic.
Woefully
There comes a time
My fingers start griping
As soon as i start typing
And splurge over the keyboard
In a cerebral vortex
That we call poetry
Yet the mystery is
Where my thoughts will go
Perhaps I'll plant a tree
And become the dirt
Where roots will grow
And find freedom
In realising
Such cannot Happen Without me
Then I would be a drop of water
Burnt in the heat that
turns me vapour
And travel
An unknown course
Navigated by the winds and cloud
But never in one form will I be bound
I may fall to the ground
And know the face of dust
The taste of sand
And the speed of trust
Carelessly supported
A speck in the air
To be exported
On surfaces near
I can study the Will of Disasters
And heed the compassion
Of a miracle
I can speak to unexplored horizons
And imitate the order
Of a Space follicle
I can paint the landscape with Fairies
And understand the notes
Of Their skill
If only the glass weren't half empty
If only perceptions weren't half full.
