As I sit today,
in front of my laptop's a bit too bright screen
for writing a poem,
my eyes hurt, my fingers barely move,
my heart brims with messed up thoughts
and my soul aches for not being able to express, anymore.
I don't know when and how
my life came down to this
this point of emptiness that stretches far,
far beyond all the infinities.
I couldn't see it coming
for the longest part of the time
And yet here I am staring at it,
the one which should not be named at all,
with my drooping eyelids and burning heart.
When does an artist lose himself?
Is it in the rush of life or
In the battle against one's own mind or
In our incapacitated creativity succumbing to ruins of time or
Is it really lost ever? Maybe, the art is waiting
for me and my will and my passion
to paint the canvas.