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When a writer's pen stops working
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 jerked 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.