Soon a writer hits a block


This block has no number
Just crystallized walls in layers
Travelling in a zigzag platform
On the train of thought express
Yet they never arrive at the station
Something about the in between
There must have been a stop over.

Someone whispered something about a muse
That line of advice is no news
My heart once got broken, so was my poetry
It took me time to untangle that web
Then I got spinning in another direction.
Sometimes my imagination is like a failed erection
I just can’t seem to get it up

There is a gap that is just a space
An empty that accommodates nothing
No matter how tight the nerves knot
They cannot push beyond their limit
That time is the moment for nothing
Pensive moods turn up with nothing
Books and pens stare back with nothing
And nothing is being born
But after nothing, comes something.


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