Poetry

I have nothing to do these days. Absolutely nothing. Surprising, as it may seem, but it's true. In fact, I'm in such a wierd state, that I woke up last night and wrote this disastrous poem, if you can call it that.

I want to sing, said I to them,
You'll fail, said they to me.
I want to write, said I to them,
You'll be a bore, said they to me.
I want to paint, said I to them,
You'll but fail, said they to me.
It was never meant to be,
what I meant myself to be.

I want to be free, said I to them,
You'll end up in a cell, said they to me.
I want to climb a hill, said I to them,
You'll break a leg, said they to me.
I want to jump, said I to them,
You'll crack your skull, said they to me.
It was never meant to be,
what I meant myself to be.

Do this or that, you'll fail at both, said they to me
Don't eat our heads, do what thou dost best.
But lads, what do I best?

In fact, it's so pathetic that I've started to pity myself, my imagination and overall condition of life. The season is such, maybe, when there' supposed to be spring and love in the air, but I only get a whiff of the darned boards.
But, surprisingly, I still am bored, and have a lot of time on my hands. Hence this poem. Hence this blog entry.
So, then, this all for now.
Dhruv Kumar says good bye.