A Poem That's Still Untitled

It hits like a catastrophe when I've my pen in my hands and my brain snuggles all the thoughts and doesn't let them come out.

My brain randomly comes out of the muse and I feel exasperated when my musing doesn't find any alley to the outer world.

The exasperation exacerbates when I find my thoughts out and about, readily present to the world outside and find them incompetent and so unable to make people stop and think.

Maybe my candor needs a bit of strengthening, maybe a rummage but in an organized fashion, and maybe a dash of sarcasm.

The day it dawned on me how passionate I was about writing, it was liberating but we always need an edge to stand out.

And now is the time I question the rationality of my choices but wait, should choices be rational or I think it's the savoir-faire I lack.

I'm engulfed by the insecurities that grow on me, unnerve me, and have a tendency to annihilate me. They bring me winter, they bring me blues.

Any epiphany, a reverie, a nostalgia, an ambiance, a vibe, fuel the writer that lies within but I still feel so discontented with the value I'm able to bring out on paper.

Like a little girl etches the walls of her room unapologetically, I just continue to scribble, and sometimes opposing the melatonin secretion, I keep my sleep laden eyes open.

Following a passion is not simple, it takes a lot of time, patience, perseverance to fall, and to stand back. It takes grit to run after a dream, to start from a scratch.

Explanation

I wrote this piece when I was trying to find a place in the world of poetry. I converted my dejections into poetry. I never thought that the restlessness of a writer can find space in the lines of a poem. These lines depict the insecurities, the uneasiness that we face when we feel that we have run out of words, and also when we don’t get the sort of appreciation we deserve. It happens to me so often that I felt to give it a voice. Hope it’s understandable and hopes it serves its purpose.