with this pen i scribble-
artistic dishonesty.
i am not a poet-
nor am i blessed in prose.

it creeps in silence
and sets itself deep inside.

the progress made
vanishes with heavy sigh.

tranced
you wish to explain,
how and why-

"what happened" when asked,
you race through to form
a well constructed speech of lie.

a child with crayons
reflecting your thoughts.
pieces and bits
searching for a non existing
word

a pile of woods
stacked up
on the green empty backward.

the trees around
making the wind visible

let my head be upon thy feet.
tears wash away all my esteem.
can only make mockery of myself
with failed enterprise.