My poems have failed me now;
my poems are not worth a penny anymore!
Words have flown to a far away distance,
devoid of love,
devoid of pain,
into a land covered with frozen frost,
faceless and nameless,
or may be to a cursed sea shore.
In the morning,
my pen tried to scribble in a callous attempt,
fondling a few rhetorics in a futile fashion,
but the lines are not worth a pie today.
I have entered a barren alley
where my creativity is caught, a prey
of doubts and of prejudices,
like a helpless insect in the grip of tweezers.
Infertility hangs around as dense as a mountain fog,
covering my vision with an impenetrable cataract.
Thoughts are un-sublime today,
my ideas a commoner.
I would better hide my poverty-stricken soul
and quit quietly now,
for my pen won’t make a rhyme anymore.
Now, I better give up and go,
else you could call me a fake poet tomorrow.