I’ve been working on the first draft of my novel for quite a while now. And coupled with writing short stories, I hate to admit but I was getting saturated. I wanted to try out something different. And that’s precisely what I did. It’s been sixteen years since I last wrote a poem (realising how long that’s been, makes me feel old) because I promised myself I would never write one again after a certain incident. But here I am trying my hand at it again. To me, personally, this feels like the first time. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. The featured image is taken from Pinterest.

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Strained eyes stared at the blinking cursor on the screen,

Waiting for inspiration to strike.

Fingers drummed on the table in between,

The brain forcing them to write.

The downpour of the rain drowned the sound of the ticking clock,

That ticked seconds, minutes, hours away.

Sitting unmoved on the high-back chair,

Melancholia seeped its way into the beginnings of the day.

A random sentence appeared across the virtual white page,

The base of any working piece.

But not meeting the standards the oppressor, perfectionism, had set,

With rage, the hand erased away the crease.

A deep breath, a crack of the neck, the fingers rested on the keys,

Adamant about not listening to the enemy.

The locked gates flung open,

Releasing the river of creativity.

The fingers worked across the board with zest,

With ears shut to the words of the oppressor.

The rain stopped, and the clouds parted, 

But the clicking sound continued the endeavour.