Lost and out of place
Fueled by my feelings
Not sure of my purpose
But I feel for you

I want to write you something
But these words are never enough
Your perfect smile
And your complex eyes
The immense connection existing in
The space between us

I am limited by this language
And as a writer
That's frustrating as hell

words are the essence of the soul.
but if i can't paint a dreamscape of my own emotion and instead sustain myself using half formed memories of poems long forgotten, do I still have the right to my spirit?

On a chilling winter night
The quill slips and icy, has to fight
I wrap my frozen heart around a shawl
And frost traps my ink which freezes too.

However, inside, my body burns with desire
Making me tremble like red hot magmatic fire
But this poor quill, alas
Numbed in this weather is exhausted already!

The flame of my candle flickers and weakens
Inspiration shows a passing fancy and she wants to be desired
I’m going to break free from this heavy inertia
But how? Everything is still and tired!

Oh cruel globe! Why is my soul so mute?
She was able to drench me in its natural artistic flood
I can’t believe in her sudden inactivity
What’s going on, I’m going numb in my blood!

Oh you my muse, spread your silky artistic veil
Over my being beseeching you to save it
Oh you, my well of inspiration and mystical words
I implore you, listen and come to my bedside, hail!

But why is everyone, Heavens, deaf to my call?
Just who is willing to hear my plea of despair and silence
No one can revive this depressing poetry and her fate
Loneliness, to the four winds I’m going to dislocate!

In a certain hour of a chilling winter night
I’ve let my writing expire at my workbench
Farewell then, poetry, fie!
In my night I fade away and nothing muffles my plight!

But with this new dawn, don’t you cry my muse
I’ll write  with you,  I’ll be in your care
And we’ll content ourselves with sweetness, laughter and schemes
I’ll once again respond to your vital needs

However, aura of happiness and joy
I simply won’t do it tonight, but finally,
Don’t fret and rest in my dreams, hopefully
Tomorrow I’ll worship you, unconditionally!

Written on August 26, 2010,
Translated on November, 13, 2017

Ages of writer's block,
Unmotivated of ever being productive,
Witty lines became depressing,
Every word seems so boring as ever.

A new start was all that was needed,
A shove from the back for it to begin,
Its been a while since ive got this feeling,
More longer that i could remember.

October is the creativity month,
The hype is really living up to its name,
And so here i write for the first day,
And all i could say is; Hello there Inktober!

-HIY

give me a pen
and I’ll give you
my heart

My nights seem vexatious

For the pen's now been cursed

The waves don't allure me

I beg from door to door. 



The Ink has frozen long ago

Heart beats bear no trace

Somewhere in the wilderness

Muses have found a place.



Prashant Shaurya©

All Rights Reserved

I call it writers block
because nothing else comes to mind other than the night you left me in my dorm room with nothing but a blood stained towel and a half empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

I call it writers block
because there are voices in my head fighting a war against each other and they're using my blood as a weapon.

I call it writers block because..
let's be honest,
nobody wants to keep hearing about a break up after an entire ******* year.

I call it writers block
because you are falling asleep to the sound of her voice, while I stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning, listening to cars passing by.
Always hoping one day, it will be your headlights I see shining through my bedroom window, pulling into my driveway.

I mostly call it writers block though..
.because nobody gives a **** if i miss you or not.