And on some days
I just can't write.
I skim through pages
and
scribble my name a thousand times
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
My diaries and notebooks lie open,
Blank,
White.
I look at my own words
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
I stumble upon words
And fall insides holes of oxymorons,
And I end up realising,
my name and writing together are also an oxymoron.
I look for inspirations and motivations
But end up realising,
I just can't write.
I personify my emotions,
Add similes to my feelings,
Just like a heart broken by love does.
But I still end up realising,
I just can't write.
I read poems and stories
Of writers who could write,
Feeling, maybe someday even I would be able to.
I battle with metaphors
and
Scratch the onomatopoeias,
I injure the meanings
and
Spill my thoughts through my veins.
I shout " Alohamora " to my heart a million times.
I trace through the lines of the endings of my stories.
I try to go on like the brook forever,
and
I hear the voice of the solitary reaper in the daffodil fields.
Yet, as the day ends,
I end up realising,
I just can't write.

Earlier I had a look,
To a beautiful brook,
But day by day and night by night,
As the sands of time passed by,
The brook turned into a gigantic cry,
With water ***** black and plants did die,
And humans wanted a overfly.
It took thirty seconds to cross that bridge,
But many years for that brook to come beneath bridge.
That thirty seconds gave me a look,
How intelligently we drained that brook.
That's why I say humans are great crook.
Earlier I had a look,
To a beautiful brook.
Now I look it again,
That horrible sight gives me pain,
Again and again more pain I gain.
That sight keeps flashing in my mind,
And broke my dream of utopian world,
Now I believe my dream was inert.
That bridge was sign of developed human civilisation,
What faces of ours will be portrayed to our advanced future generation.