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Oh here I am, lost in thought,
Trying to write a musical this day…
Looking out the window, into the sun,
Into the faces of men, women and children who play…
I saw the faces walking past me, lost in their own thought, lost in their own little worlds of deceit, greed, lust and love, and didn’t think twice about the challenge that lay before me. I, who have never before embarked on the journey of poetry, never before undertaken the arduous task of making simple little words sing a tune and dance to it, I, who have always hid behind the safe mask of prose and paragraphs, thought to myself, albeit foolishly, how difficult can it really be?
I turned back into the gloomy room,
Saw the mismatch walls and the lack of life.
It needs a woman’s touch, yes it does, I think to myself,
I need to get me a wife.
Pushing these frivolous thoughts away from my head, I sit at my desk and stare at the coffee and the plate of untouched bread. I pick up my laptop and open it’s hood, and I try oh so hard, not to brood. As I type these flimsy words, my head breaks into song – songs of love, songs of death, songs of everlasting breath. Songs of chivalry, songs of beauty, songs of virtue, joy and revelry. I try to catch the thoughts, I try to hold on to them long enough to write. But, it seems, I am bound, irreversibly to a life of prose, bland and contrite. Just then, a voice rings out in the room and I turn to see my cook, standing in the doorway, gazing upon my confused look.
Oh sir, what will it be, your choice,
For today’s lunch – will you have rotis or will you have rice?
I am your humble servant, please get me a cell phone,
And a connection, some decent clothes and a cycle so I may roam.
I send him away for some Pepsi and a smoke, as I continue my attention to the musical, that was disturbed by the funny bloke. Why can’t I rhyme to save my life, I ask myself. It’s because you waste too much time, reading trash, wizards, warlocks and house-elves.
Oh Darling inspire me, I call out to the woman I love,
The woman whose touch I miss, one with whom I fit like a glove.
Inspire me enough to call out to you in your own sweet way of poems so true,
The art that I can never master, never as good as you.
I give up my mundane effort, trying not to think of my failure. I give up my childish dream of using words to lure. I am never as good as her, I can never be. Even when she writes to kill time, with effortless ease, she outshines me. I guess I will leave it here, with nothing more to come. I guess I’ll get back to my coffee and bread and dream of things to come.