The winter morning mist

The blue smoke filled the room like the winter morning mist. What an unoriginal line he had just written. It hangs in the sky motionless. Another one. He could go on describing it, use his limited vocabulary, make a few paragraphs, draw a margin and fair it down in his notebook. Another second rate creation. However he chose to arrange his lines, they would not convey significance. They were more a outcome of boredom than a genuine interest, a meaningless chore to fill the two hours after dinner and to tire his mind enough for sleep. Never had he been consumed with an insurmountable urge, a moment of heightened passion when the pen etches on paper, an extension of the thought that erupts in the brain. Such sudden urges were confined to writers who sat on his table, mocking at his incompetence. Which angel blessed them? How could they write such beautiful lines, lines that carry a world in their words, lines that expose innermost secrets, lines that gave birth to the next one? Lines that resembled none in his notebook. He scratched his head and saw the blue smoke with a fresh perspective. It turned into ink and blotted everything he had written so far.

ode to the moons on your nails

if i could rewrite my poems
i would rewrite them all
not one has the words
that absolve my melancholy
not one has its root
in the crevices of my soul

if i could rewrite my poems
i would write more about nature
and only seldom about you
and not one would be titled
ode to the moons on your nails

if i could rewrite my poems
i would befriend solitude
more than my pen
and wait for each emotion
to age inside me
and find its graceful end