What is it that makes a poem?
(the words and feelings in it?)
What makes the poet dense as stone
with no way to begin it?
What makes the beauty of the day
so bland as I describe it?
Where goes creative thought despite
all that I do to bribe it?
Tomorrow is another day
when hope springs forth eternal
that I will hatch original thoughts
'though writer's block's infernal!
Erin - 9/1/10
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Koi mujhse bhi puch le kyun khamosh hai meri aankhein,Meri zindagi ko fir se maang raha hai ye dil satta king and Har lamha yun kal Ko talash raha hai yeh dil,Guzri yaadon ko fir se jeena chah raha hai yeh dil play bazaar
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