The cons of prose, defy my intentions,
Yet I stand trying hard beneath..
The cure to my curiosity, not just the prevention.
To write a word on an empty sheet..
I need an inspiration at least..
In search of inspiration,
to free my craving heart..
Wailing through the crowd
in a pandemonium of thoughts,
I glance through the pages of an unknown species..
A species long lost in the valleys of darkness..
To write a line on an empty sheet..
I need some consolation at least..
Characters are there but are rather unclear..
Some are just a figment of imaginations severe..
Many available but only for a mere, minute..
Some are just the reincarnation of me..
To write a paragraph on an empty sheet..
I need a clearer thinking,
which I am having the least..
Stammering thoughts of an occupied mind,
Shimmering replicas of ideas denied...
Bulging with dreams of who not to be..
I still end up seeing myself amidst..
others who are just like me.
To write a story on an empty sheet..
I need my glasses and a bunch of humans..
My epiphany...
In the crowd of many, its still hard to find any...
