It weighs you down,
This baggage you carry.

This wouldn't be
Much more of a poem
Than the being
I'm trying to pose as,
But more of a meandering
Snake
(For a foolish mind)
Curves of instances
Untraceable.
And I was stunned
At a gradual realisation
That I'd not really like
To retrace my steps.

If reminded of
Your own mortality,
Would you ponder over it
And see it as an inevitable end,
Or would you choose to live
In ignorance?
It is immaterial,
Because the living only matters,
And it's ways;
Knowing the ends
Doesn't grant you knowledge
Of the means.

How long
Should I wait
For inspiration to strike,
For that one moment
That would define my life.

You say I should work hard
So tell me how many poems
I need to write
Before being recognised as a bard.

Endless wait
Inaction
Such has become time.

Souls are said to be connected
With red threads
Forming bonds to last.
Whenever I feel lost
I trace the thread
Connecting me and you
And manage
To find myself again.

What would you call
The drought in your head
Devoid of thoughts and ideas
Sometimes I can stare at a wall
With nothing going through
And when brought to present
I wonder if it's normal.
Maybe only a draught
For this drought
Can shake me
Out of this
Internal monologue.

Can you determine your worth
On how much you own?
And what you own
Among your riches
And your intelligence
And your charm
Smiling lies
And shards of truth.
What do I measure you with,
Your usefulness?