Why Dreams, Why?

When I begin writing a poem,

Despondency strikes me first,

Then a twinge of an unfamiliar pain,

And for a substantial amount of time,

I stare at the ink without much gain.

 

Sometimes, I close my eyes and,

A smorgasbord of words erupts in my head.

I feel more downcast and try to slumber.

After insignificant drowsing in bed,

I wake up and find myself even dumber.

 

I still refuse to capitulate to the empty paper,

And travail to arrange all the wherewithal.

I hark back to my febrile past.

I could see the days of bliss,

And the heydays that didn't last.

 

The nadir of life comes to haunt me again,

Prodding the pen in my hand to rise and

Start wrangling on the forlorn paper.

I suddenly start fondling with proses,

Converting then into rhymes like a Raper.

 

With each word, I ingeniously write,

I try to liberate my innocent soul

From the clutches of an ignominious past.

The battle of words exhort me to continue,

Turning me into an indomitable enthusiast.

 

In the middle, a guilt strikes me.

I blanch and want to retreat.

I should fight, I must not quit,

Lest the guilt take ascendancy

Over my desire to get rid of it.

 

The thoughts start crumbling,

I fumble with words.

Tears trickle down my cheek.

I bounce back and feel that the

Guilt is, in fact, the inspiration I seek.

 

From the fracas, emerges a magic,

Prestidigitating by the mighty pen

Like a magic wand conjuring some tricks.

I hope the pain would ebb some,

And I would pen tomes of flicks.