Writer's Block

photo by prashant kolachala

Writer’s Block 

third year srija sengupta 

They’re nowhere to be found

They, that once flowed through my pen

I’ve pushed and pushed and pushed

Still I don’t know if I’ll see them again

I’ve looked for them on the ceiling

But the surface is painted smooth

I’ve looked under my bed 

But all I found were filthy untruths

I’ve sought them in cobwebbed corners

But all I touched was dust

I’ve searched the threads on my sweaters

And proclaimed the operation a bust

I’ve trampled through the backyard lawn

And left no stone unturned

I’ve rummaged through the kitchen cabinets

The result? Nothing, but my eggs burned

They’re out there, I know

All brash and bold and free

For now, I’ll live my life

And one day, they’ll come back to me