The Poet

That darn blinking cursor on his word processor made him nauseous
Hunched over his laptop,from the dusk to dawn
He read his new piece and was too exhausted to only mumble ‘atrocious’
His eyes filling up with water, nose running and his back was sore
He went back to the drawing board

He wanted to pour his heart and soul, let it all out
But his muse had aged and rusted
All his tried and tested methods were busted
He couldn’t allow himself to become frustrated and flustered

So he dusted himself off
And mustered his will, the remnants thereof
And wanted to be in the body of the same man whose words
Were fraught with unparalleled passion and grit

Believing that he can still instill awe
And bring Space and Time to a standstill
He took one last leap of faith
With his quill and spartan will

He felt an inkling, a gut feeling, that a new idea was a-coming
Akin to a cheetah who has been waiting in the bushes for hours
He was ready to pounce and jump on it
A new rhyme, he could already conjure it

Groping around his mind for ideas here and yonder
He had finally cornered it
And he wasn’t the agent, he felt like a mere conduit
Allowing the inspiration to flow through
Oh so effortless and so smooth

Alas, like romance after marriage, it faded away eventually
Until it became a mere shadow somewhere in his psyche
A self-created illusion which was a dead end , most likely
A mirage in his mind which was now a desert
Dry, Desolate and Dingy

He felt excruciating pangs of pain
Realizing he had let himself be fooled yet again
He looked at himself with utter contempt and disdain
He sought refuge by drowning himself in his past

His previous bestsellers, boy, he’d say, they sold so fast
Surrounded by his old poems
They were strewn about him like corpses
For the mind that brought them to life was now dead