Writer’s Block and Big Blue Bag (Part I)

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…)

 

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