Pomodoro Breaks

Of late I have been plagued,
with a question, I forgot where
I borrowed from, but to bury it down,
I must unearth, it’s one honest answer.

The question goes here,
Why should I, of all men, write?
Is it not worth to seek the purpose before
delving into the abyss of verses.

Is it because I love words?
But words have never sought me
To admire them, in the market place,
Love, I reckon being told, is a private affair.

Is it because I love fame?
Then, I should call my morals,
For never is art, measured by likes,
But only in the solace, it offers the weary mind.

Is it that I am heartbroken?
If that’s true, then it’s better to
Move on, spread wings and kiss the
Sky, than to mourn the loss of ground.

Is it that I am so learned?
Oh, stop flattering yourself, the
One true knowledge is in realising,
That you know nothing, of all there is.

Is it all just to woo women?
This land’s me in a crossroad,
To submit to the dead poets claim,
Or to acclaim to what is true in my heart.

Maybe I am a miserable writer, who
Claims to love yet fail to word them,
Burdened with questions, that I borrow
Just to share, causing minds to mayhem

All rights reserved. Nirmalya Panigrahi. 2020