Little time breezes past
our conscious fingers
Which are so
busy working that they
Do not close in fast enough to catch it.

But time in excess is a
*****
It crawls past like a lazy snail and
Comes in such
abundance that to catch it then
with a bottle and
Store it for later use becomes
An impossibly boring task.

Just so you notice me in the midst
Of the bare colored walls, I wear
Florescent polka dot dresses every day.
My heart is hit on by a hailstorm when you pass
By the nook of the passage where I stand but-
That you can’t hear my loud and extremely
Audible internal calamity
Makes those thrashing hailstones bruising
My fragile flesh
Weigh a thousand tons more.

The vacant pages of the titanic
Book I open today will
Tomorrow be over-packed with
My entire little fist sized heart

Hush.

Don’t speak.

Your heart beats
Beats against my ear
Speaks
Sweet, sweet
Secrets
My ears can’t hear.  But

I understand.  
Sigh. How
It all makes sense.
You breathe.
I smile.
Your heart doesn't lie.

In its whispers
You’re alive.

That was my pen, before.
Lapped up every last drop of ink hungrily
And spewed them all out in just the right
Shape, the right amount, for the right meaning,
Blowing life into its royal blue color recipe
To craft breathing alphabets that animated
Into words that I remember
Were mischievous, but adorable babies:
They used to talk, walk, play, cry and sleep;
Oh, they used to live on their vast white landscape,
Reviving my memories with their
Own connotation- my innovators.

But my pen is a teenager: unpredictable and moody,
It now creates stubborn, sterile letters that just want to besiege
The tip, clog right there and not drop out.
Even if I ****** it awake now, my pen would just puke some
Little droplets shaped like letters that would
Blot the paper ugly, or, the words would exit deformed, like
Their genes had gotten affected by a nuclear bomb.

Oh, what have I done to enrage you, my love?
Did I over-feed you, or under-appreciate you
That your self-esteem decided to turn upon me,
Or become so dependent on you that my mind has dulled
Its imaginations far too dry now,
For you to shape them well?

My verses now wilt and die,
New lands in the paper just get wasted, alarming me
For land is a limited resource in my house, the earth.
But land is not the ultimate problem,
For there are a thousand landscapes I could pull out of my imagination;
Only if my pen would love me once more
And reproduce my ink faithfully,
I could be a writer again.

Struggle, struggle
With toil and trouble
Go through it all, then
Pop like a bubble

Scintillating depth paints the luxurious fabric
In a vista that drowns in
Its own sophistication
Thick, spicy flavor drips from the petals of
Soft indigo ink
Wetting the paper (that sweats with
Hard work and furrowed concentration,
Eyes do not waver
External cacophony mutes
The only tunes being the hymn
In the skilled artisan’s mind)
Art materializes into
Real beauty- an irrational, existing,
Hypnotizing magnificence,
A piece of pure worth, ready made-
To be sold cheaply in the local market.