By Arjya Bora
Writing isn't a passion of mine,
It's just a thing I do in my leisure time.
I used to write when I was nine
You can see it above and below.
With a smile of fallen teeth, I rhyme
As many as I can,
Hoping to conclude my poem
At a cheerful end.
Now I am sixteen,
I still can write.
It's just that logic has stuck,
And jubilation has left my mind.
Everything seems sensible,
But it doesn't make me smile.
You can see it above and below
I think as much as I can,
But I can't find any words to begin.
Like a rusty car
In an abandoned mansion,
My mind too starts
In a lazy manner.
It functions for a bit,
But it fails to stay the pace.
And after that,
It just falls apart
Going through mindless thoughts,
It never seems to struggle.
But as soon as I lift my pen,
It abstains
And disappoints me again.
But all of these thoughts
In my subconscious mind,
Just ask me one more time
Will you be able to write again,
Like you did,
When you were nine?