I can’t seem to write, nowadays
I have become a stranger to words
Or perhaps, I am a stranger unto myself
I love to rhyme. I tell stories.
I have played with words.
Standing in my balcony,
Behind this glass window
Watching the early morning sky
It is a beautiful day, yet
Everything feels so distant to me
Sigh!
I blow my hot breath against the glass
Painting hearts on the foggy window
What do you write?, they ask.
Some seemingly sensible reasons, of course.
Mm, stuff like that, I said dismissively.
Still blowing on the misty window pane
Staring at the vanishing hearts
Carelessly watching over
The boys playing cricket
Hah, the ball hits the stump
And there goes a wicket.
Focused as they appear,
Sure footed players,
Knowing what to do.
While I stand aloof with uncertainty
Stuck with my unsaid words.
When thinking becomes philosophy,
This distraction feels strangely familiar
Leaving the vapors of my hot musings
I walk away with abstract thoughts
Preparing myself to muse
About being unable to write.
Of how I become a stranger.