Four hours back I could not talk
Suffered from a writer’s block.
Visited neighbour quack for cure;
he said treatment was obscure.
I decided then to roam,
Leave the four walls of my home.
After all, the summer’s pain
Had faded in pre-monsoon rain.
Belly full and mind empty
Perfect disaster recipee:
walking in the night and breeze
hoping some idea I would seize.
All I got was stares cold;
Turned out clothes were way too bold
for Rani Bagh to tolerate;
5-inch shorts are not so great.
Yet I egged on farther still
As my goodwill went downhill.
It was distraction not needed
I’d lie, say if went unheeded.
Though I marched on being confident,
My nekkid legs their own way went.
My scatterbrain was more scattered
was nothing single that mattered.
Written in passionate prose
There’s still something no one knows.
I possess a big blue bag;
since forever, I should brag.
It has letters old and new
That no one else except me knew.
‘Coz I write them from me to me
‘Tis a nonstop soliloquy.
it literally had my heart red
which was cut out from me and bled.
It now is of pale blue colour
A husky-ball would be warmer.
How red to blue has turned my heart
Would be told in another part.
(to be continued…)