I’m not a good writer, she says
Thinking of her friend, a master of flowery essays
To write was a desire, her words did not tire
And now the time has dawned, that she no longer believes in writing again.
I could try, but I’m cynical
Lost my golden key, to this luxury vehicle
To again start… to correlate and paraphrase;
I could try, but not by force
Cannot create in spite of this verbose
To merely copy paste is all she could think nowadays…
I don’t have depth like you, she says
Thinking her friend was buried deep within the wordplays,
To pen down was her wish,
only the combinations of words she missed…
And now the time has come, she begins to deny, the very existence of new literary days.
So let’s just give her a reality check
A knock on her temple and tap on the deck
Crank up those fingers and dust those adjectives and nouns,
Freely tied by conjunctions and verbs, exclamations and pronouns.
I’ll try, says she, beginning to give it a thought,
What magic it would befall, if words along, her ideas ever got.
Little by little, let’s listen to her story
Coming back to writing, there’s nothing to be sorry.
Your grade 8 and 9 poems, they still know their tracks,
So bounce those fingers and let thoughts no longer relax.