it's time to go ...

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.