The Old Lament — The Writers Block

Boundaries appear
and great walls stand tall
around my thoughts
to confine me from preying on words
and feeding the white sheets
for my survival

Unable to fetch
fresh food for thought
I’ll keep munching on
cliched words and phrases
scribbling the old lament —
the writers block,
hoping for the walls
to crumble, waiting
to inhale the air
rich in newer ideas
and write till the end.

Empty Bowls

Being labelled as ‘a misfit

who thinks’, I was protruded

by the machines operating

a practical world.

I had an option none, but to

frequent the gathering of thoughts;

the lifeline for a dying

heart and mind.

Its only there where I

caught the addiction

of sipping poetic words.

These days when food shortages

are grave, I almost suffocate

when the bowls are empty.