When I was ashamed of myself,
ashamed of the bundles of pages stacked,
on the side of the table where I worked,
thinking of throwing it in the dustbin,
which may have been overfilled with the modern papyrus if turned true,
smoltered by blue ink and invigorative phrases,
which I presumed to be my brain's faction.
But my mind fought,
to stop me from being so wrought,
and made me battle with myself,
in a minimal depression I did delve.
to escape from this dark cavern,
I decided to have my mind govern,
to have the bundles rest in their place,
and not letting me falling from grace.
Then a person came into my world,
with phenomenal uses of the bee-like words,
I was captivated by the phrases of melancholy,
and by the passages, which were verbal melody.
The stories always swept me off,
like you know when a strong wind blows around a valley,
the grass sways over like a celebration,
the flowers gamboling like the pin of a weight scale,
the bud plants opening up and releasing the pollen,
the trees responding with a heavy nod,
making the small members of the Avis family to use their forelimbs
to embrace the sky, to feel the wind.
For weeks, I was silent, being in a limbo state,
and forgot to read the newspapers, to know of the present date,
I was having this red porcelain cup, with my tea in it,
seeing out of the window, which provided me with an urbane scenery,
Buildings Buildings everywhere,
not a free place to breathe,
the population being divided in different shibboleths,
not even thinking of fellow sapiens,
just trudging along the way,
showering abuses like rain,
ignoring the mental pain we all go through.
I widened my gaze through the horizon,
and noticed a drummer in the sidewalk,
lost in his own world of percussive melodies,
either to entertain or,
to end his daily meager pain,
but he and everyone there did knew,
that he was good in what he was doing.
The dictionary of my mind suddenly opened,
shuffling pages till we stopped at a word Chutzpah,
which always inducted the feeling in me,
which the drummer was encountering.
I kept the cup on the window sill,
and went to the table which was host,
to my reclusive literary works,
and took out some papers from the packet,
and procured onto the writing pad,
my mind rotating like an old zoetrope,
and my hand jotting down on the paper.
It was like an endless vast piece of land,
interluded with such trees and bushes of blue,
Each entity showing my
dreams to pursue.....