Through chants and chirps
And band of babboons

In the middle of slurps
And conquest converts

In the game of a seeker and first
Finding elves, giants, wand and brooms

Seven, the pieces of a life
Lived with these pieces, my life

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I struggle to write when I think
My poetry was yet all about you
So to think about you and write
Rhyme schemes, alliterations, metaphors, not a fair fight

My drafts remind me of the writer
My dreams have the remains of my muse
So to begin all over again or not
Rhyme schemes, alliterations, metaphors, somewhere they rot

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I seek inspiration from what I wrote
To be followed by a blank screen staring
I wonder what changed
The day, the night, coward or daring
I will try again tomorrow
To imagine you in the audience hearing

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The fine line between writing for someone and writing to someone is called reality check

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And another night survived
With a similar template of questions
A revised revisit to a map unknown
A route so familiar, yet always unsure

-

I am struggling to make sentences
And there is no poetry in that
Words evade my comprehension
And the drafts can testify
A lost art or a lost artist?

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the only thing reciprocating
about an unrequited love
is a poem about it

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To retry is to not submit to failure
To restart is to not submit to success

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Are you there?
There you are!
Are we there?

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the thing about unrequited love,
it is generally found when you are lost
and it is generally lost when you find yourself

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