Today, when I was free;
I thought of doing a poetry.
My eyes rolled up and down randomly.
Yet, nothing came by me.
Thinking.
Oh! Butterfly, a good thing to write.
I wrote:
" Butterfly, beautiful is your fluttering flight."
And then I was blank.
And stopped. Went on a river bank.
Thinking, maybe fish will do.
Yet, there's no ripple, no clue.
I tried laying on meadow.
My eyes, up and high, sky says much.
Yet, nothing, I could hear such.
Disappointed.
I paddled home, no more I could spare;
These days, my poetry are rare.
Exhausted.
I collapsed in my bed- empty.
Thinking.
Oh! Better be the poem- my vanity!