When should I write?
When boredom gets sculpted into motivation?
When a distracting thought
Bothers me long enough
To make me turn to it instead,
With ardent concentration -
Thereby perhaps making it
The topic of my next composition?

Should I risk completing that sad poem
I’d been working on for a month now,
When I’m in the best of spirits, today?
Should I try and imagine
What being happy sounds like,
In an unfamiliar milieu of words
For the sake of completing my poem,
Hoping it’ll lift my mood too?

Should I scribble away
The cold downpour of tears with
The harmless, vicarious vengeance of my pen,
The one thing I half-guiltily hold dear
When my anger endlessly battles with helplessness?
[Or are they not worth being written about,
As many tongues would simultaneously utter?]

Must I write in a state of ecstatic frenzy?
       Or could I have to leave that precious thought
                                   Annoyed, hanging in mid-air,
                                            When a trifling rush of new thoughts
                                                  Crashed my way, making me forget,
                              Why I was holding the pen in my hand,
                                               after all.



                                                      Epilogue:
                                               I think I must write now to find out,
                                               Before the ink of my existence dries out.