Posted on September 25, 2011


A pot of ink, with it a quill
Maybe, I think, that is what will
Satisfy my dear little heart
And help create a piece of art
For I just cannot seem to find,
To say that which is on my mind,
Any words, none at all, to write
Though I do try with all my might
Then I take a moment, stop, think:
Possibly it isn’t the ink,
Maybe I am trying too hard,
I may need to let down my guard,
Maybe it’s then the words will flow;
It’s a thought, I don’t really know
It’s prose I truly wish to craft
(Each wish is now a mere draft)
Is this writer’s-prosaic-block,
No sand, no grav’l, but walls of rock?
Maybe I should just get away
Enjoy a sunny autumn day
Then, maybe, upon my return
Out the imprisoned thoughts will churn..


~ Karishma