Poetry now seems a long-lost thought.
"Keep on writing", someone had said.
I needed to achieve perfection,
But I gave up too easily.
Where did all my passion go?
I need to set my life straight.
Need to write again, and better.
Can I reproduce my poignancy?
Will I be able to write well again?
Imagination, compact-ness, seem to have died.
I need to prod my grey cells further.
I shall write well again.