Writer’s Block

I don’t feel the urge to write,
my words have dried up,
and I fear I will be exposed
for my wordlessness.

If the words do come,
I don’t know if they will amount to much.
Will they be loosely packed and porous
and take up more space
than they should?
Will they be dense enough
to be worth their weight?

For now,
these speculations must wait.
For now,
I feel like I am staring down the well of words
and the water level is so low
it will take ages for the bucket to get to the surface.

Then again, no one’s running anywhere,
and time seems like an endless rope,
the pulley’s well oiled,
and even though it creaks,
it still works.

If I do this often enough,
I can predict the frequency
at which I’ll draw out lines.
I’ll factor in the time when my arms feel the fatigue,
or when I get plain bored,
and have an estimate
of how long I may take to write a verse.

Damn, look at me,
fitting science into poetry,
and making it all look algorithmic.
Do I fool anyone?

Do I fool myself?

here I am,
trying my hand
at another poem.

Day 10 of the 21-day lockdown​ in India​


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