Every day, as the clock ticks
and I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is an interruption
and another interruption.
So whenever,
I pick up my pen to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My mother shouts from a corner of her room.
Her voice crashes to every notorious wall
that claps with its ears.
She asks me to do her a favour
and every time this happens,
the favour she asks me to do,
somehow slit the throat of the wire
that holds the chandeliers of my words.
In the end,
my words fall into the wells of my eyes
and my poems turn me blind.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.
So whenever,
I turn to a blank page to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
The clouds race with each other
and the sun becomes their referee.
They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organised by Bushell.
The lightning cheers for them in awe
and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds.
When they finally reach across the finish line,
It looks like my negative 1 has turned
into positive after crossing 0.
They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush.
My words disappear and what remains is a wet page,
Still blank.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.
So whenever,
I sketch some lines and curves to words,
to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My thoughts begin to perform flamenco.
They lift their filters in the air
so that I can see my imperfections,
to which I chose to turn blind
as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes.
So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance.
My pen stands dried
as if someone stole the gold thread,
I was going to perform kintsugi
on my paper with.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.
So whenever,
I begin penning my words to write a poem.
I get interrupted.
My surrounding performs an orchestra,
While I run to my words like
two lovers separated by fate.
My hair race with the clouds that just stopped,
for they were tired.
I jump through the hurdles that
the leaves outside
and the people inside my window create,
and while I jump,
They pull my hair
and a few strands fall.
With every strand,
my poem disappears.
So by the time I reach
and kiss my words,
I become full of words
but 'poem-less'.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.
