With my pen uncapped And my journal naked, We sit at a table, We are all irritated.
Have spent hours here Waiting for a thought; It was all a waste of time, Not a single thought I’ve caught.
Can’t think of any beautiful woman Or of the beauty of skies. Can’t dream or fantasize Any greener lands or bluer skies.
No corridors of memories Or any ceiling fan No train of thought Or any table lamp.
There’s no fire in the dark There’s no gust of wind; No romance or any sheer delight Just another sleepless night.
Writing poetry is all I could If I can’t write I’ll die, I would. But I’m as thoughtless as I should If I were made of wood.
– By Vaibhav Vijaywargiya