You woke up in the morning
It was six o’ clock
Time ran forward
But your pulse had stopped.
You suffered from blurry vision
There was fear in your heart
Your chest was pounding
You could not make a start.
With great hope in your eyes
You picked up your pen
Thinking about how Stefan
Would receive you in the end.
Finally, you put pen to paper
But your mind drew a blank
It was like somebody had
Played a childish prank.
The words would not flow
And your ideas were few
Unfortunately, the muse
Refused to come to your rescue.
No, not this time around
So, to divert yourself,
You began to read Ezra Pound
The silence was deafening, loud.
You stared out of your window
And heard the birds chirping
Nearby, a squirrel was lurking.
Nature inspired you intuitively
And still, you found yourself at sea.
Was this just a bad day
At the office, you thought
Or had your artistic life
Come to nought?
What would Hemmingway
Have done in your place?
Alas, a writer who cannot write:
It was a disgrace.
Searching for inspiration
You went outside for a stroll
Greeted the friendly shop-keeper
And bought a Chinese egg roll.
No longer hungry
But embittered still
You started thinking
About writing your will.
How would you explain
To generations yet to come
As a writer you were finished
And had to live off crumbs?
Oh, if only your parents
Could see you now
Their only child refused to listen
And had turned into a clown.
And, oh my, what
Would your neighbors say?
“That boy living next door
Why, he has gone astray.”
After all, your ex-friends
Were established in their careers:
Turning into doctors, lawyers,
Chartered accountants, even engineers.
And what had you to show
For all these years?
Writing poetry on the sly
And reading Germaine Greer
Got you nowhere at all, my dear.
Sensing your frustration
A customer bought you coffee
Life had turned into a joke
You felt really sorry.
How would you ever pay your bills
If your pen ran dry?
Whose shoulder would you lean on
When you wanted to cry?
You were dressed like a bohemian
And wore casual clothes
You were compelled to buy
Your attire from cheap, dollar stores.
Today was just not your lucky day
So you departed in disgust
And searched for a long-lost friend
Whom you could confide in and trust.
Let my clients wait
If they must, you thought
It was better to visit a local bar
Drink, and watch the nightly stars.

(Archan Mehta is a freelance writer, outdoor enthusiast, meditator, foodie and does not maintain a blog yet. However, feel free to contact Archan at: archanm@hotmail.com at your convenience.)

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