Tormenting are the times
When your wits are drenched,
Like a fugitive in concertina,
In the quagmire of confusions.
When holding your speech seems
The murderer of your confidence
And hurling your ambiguity
Thrashes your importance.
These are the pinching times
When your vocals,
in defiance of mind and up in the arms
Constantly wrestle with your patience.
The strange grimace on your face
Becomes your unwanted emblem,
Attempts to overcome win you nothing
But disgusted frustration and consternations
In these heart-wrenching times
You're engulfed in flames of extinction
Then your friend bails you out,
Whom you notoriously have named
The dried and the broken Pen.