I had and wanted to say something, said nothing...
I had thought of writing, erased and dumped in a bin
The page looked empty for long
The new book, worn out, unstrung
I stared and pleaded guilty, who mocked whom it would ask
'It's you, you could never inspire', I complain
It's the pen or the ink, in vain
For long, a blank mind with unending thoughts
I held the book that I wrote, yet blank it was!
I had thought of writing, erased and dumped in a bin
The page looked empty for long
The new book, worn out, unstrung
I stared and pleaded guilty, who mocked whom it would ask
'It's you, you could never inspire', I complain
It's the pen or the ink, in vain
For long, a blank mind with unending thoughts
I held the book that I wrote, yet blank it was!