Its time to contribute for the magazine;
An urge in me to write an article,
What am I gonna write???
I haven’t given it a damn thought ,
But I assured ma’am I would
Maybe writing a poem was the best thing I thought
But as I sit to write one, I realize
The poetic self isn’t pleased on being summoned
It acts on its own will,
When thoughts flow, flow it does n how
It just gushes and rushes like a river in torrent,
A fury that no man or dam can withstand.
The intricacies of each letter formed,
The sensation that each fingers feel,
As the words flow
Is just absolutely wonderful.
But now the poet in me is still in slumber
However hard I try to wake it
The poet in me refuses to awaken
A slumber too deep that it has itself indulged in.
I think the poetic artist in me has died
I wait for the resurrection of the phoenix
From the ashes it may emerge but when ???
I have to wait and watch
I have had enough of writing for now
This article actually started off as one of my mindless thought;
With lot of apprehension I hand over this
I see an amused smile, spreading on her lips
"Abnormality thy name", she remarks.
I wonder did she like it or not????
Sowmya Nataraj
ECE "A" SEC
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