Why can't you write?

 

I had a soul, trekking 

Up the mountain peaks,

Where they said-

The color of the poetry will be

just the color of the stars.

Each word adorned with stardust.

I had my lousy poetry, trekking up there

In every sleep. In every dream.

Armours painted with

pale shade of gloominess

paused the felicity,

paused the starlight- Midway.

The poetry I craft on Earth, changes everyday.

Constructs everyday.

Deconstructs everyday.

I exhaled an avalanche

Raindrops hit the roof top

The young author died

And the color of my poetry changed.

Apologies. Apologies. Apologies.

Thousands of them

Millions of time, I asked my poetry back.

My words plundered. It does not rain now.

Perhaps the sound of water is too easy.

Some futile poems, I discarded.

I seeked for the color of Air.

A room full of intellectual debates,

chokes my poetry.

Peeping through the window, I asked my poetry back

but-

they could only give me a handful of Air.

Perhaps, I cannot culminate.

Perhaps, I am not a 

P O E T.