Ask -
Every night at 3 am,
You wring the nectar of pain.
Extract ink,
Fill a fountain pen,
Write -
A ritual you perform
Day by day,
you’re giving a piece of your life away.
You word how March makes you walk alone on dead foliage.
Tell me
what you’ll write when the nectar dries out.
Knowing that readers get amused by your pain,
will you water the plant
and wait for the pain to be alive again?
A writer’s block
makes you look at titles
Answer -
When the nectar of pain dries out,
I’ll humbly give the pen to a traumatised man
who finds comfort in writing the sins
That he has seen.
I know -
he’ll be friends with papers and poetry,
because like blood oozing through wounds,
thoughts seeps out from mental wounds.
We just seek a bandage
by metaphorically describing our pain.
When a writer’s block wants me to give in,
I may read my old poems
That I wrote in winters’ evening.
A beautiful verse from them, then, make me realize -
Maybe I just read, today,
the poems and verses written
for the loves/boos/baes that didn’t stay.
I’ll collect the leftovers/metaphors
that readers couldn’t comprehend.
Looking at those empty jars,
I’ll sit alone and think.
I believe - it’s time to wring the nectar of pain again.
When self-doubt shatters my confidence,
I’ll garner some courage
and write about hope,
for it has kept me alive.
When they fail to answer
what makes me anxious all the time.
Then,
hope is what the doctor prescribes.
Every night at 3 am,
You wring the nectar of pain.
Extract ink,
Fill a fountain pen,
Write -
A ritual you perform
Day by day,
you’re giving a piece of your life away.
You word how March makes you walk alone on dead foliage.
Tell me
what you’ll write when the nectar dries out.
Knowing that readers get amused by your pain,
will you water the plant
and wait for the pain to be alive again?
A writer’s block
makes you look at titles
you couldn’t complete.
Shuffling through papers
filled with incomplete verses,
You feel -
perhaps you aren’t made for this.
Tell me
what you’ll write
when you’ve ostentatiously served all of your metaphors to readers
and now you are left with empty jars.
Will you fill them with your
blood,
tears,
or a handful of claps
that they've showered on your art?
Tell me
what you’ll name a poem
When the fear of unable to write it creeps in
and
you are just left with some dying thoughts/mental screams.
Shuffling through papers
filled with incomplete verses,
You feel -
perhaps you aren’t made for this.
Tell me
what you’ll write
when you’ve ostentatiously served all of your metaphors to readers
and now you are left with empty jars.
Will you fill them with your
blood,
tears,
or a handful of claps
that they've showered on your art?
Tell me
what you’ll name a poem
When the fear of unable to write it creeps in
and
you are just left with some dying thoughts/mental screams.
When the nectar of pain dries out,
I’ll humbly give the pen to a traumatised man
who finds comfort in writing the sins
That he has seen.
I know -
he’ll be friends with papers and poetry,
because like blood oozing through wounds,
thoughts seeps out from mental wounds.
We just seek a bandage
by metaphorically describing our pain.
When a writer’s block wants me to give in,
I may read my old poems
That I wrote in winters’ evening.
A beautiful verse from them, then, make me realize -
Maybe I just read, today,
the poems and verses written
for the loves/boos/baes that didn’t stay.
I’ll collect the leftovers/metaphors
that readers couldn’t comprehend.
Looking at those empty jars,
I’ll sit alone and think.
I believe - it’s time to wring the nectar of pain again.
When self-doubt shatters my confidence,
I’ll garner some courage
and write about hope,
for it has kept me alive.
When they fail to answer
what makes me anxious all the time.
Then,
hope is what the doctor prescribes.
@redhya
***
buy my books on amazon - redhya
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