There are moments,
When you feel like writing.
You are drawn into
The seduction,
Of the pen and paper;
Inviting you to tell a story.
There are instances,
Of total eloquence;
And you just pour out your soul;
Without, even, thinking--
Instinctive, autopilot scribbling.
Yet, there are hours,
When you sense everything,
Oh, so deeply;
But, nothing comes out,
As sensible lines.
It's like, your soul gets tired,
Of the routinary exercise--
Getting no tangible results,
Anyway.
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