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If writing was as easy,

Like the blinking of eye,
like a subtle kiss goodbye

Like breathing while in slumber
Or getting a stranger's number.

Like two plus two makes four,
Or the girl you most adore.

Like the hand moves round the clock,
Like there is no "writer's block".

If only it was as easy,
Then every word, I'd squeeze it
out,
And like a wizard's spell
Every day, of every poem,
To the world I'd tell.

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Dear destiny,
I do not ask for much.
It's just that the next time you plan on ripping me apart,
please don't veil it as love.

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I give myself some time and space.
After all, even the first rose of proposal
Needs the correct proportion
Of warmth and cool,
Of slimy touch and windy brush,
Of crazy care and pointy snaps.

And, here we're talking about some serious commitment
Between a pen and its lover.

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A WRITER'S SMOG

When I am not able to write
I become the smog of Delhi,
choking every word
lying at my throat,
polluting every word that
tries to find its way
outside its home.
My mind becomes
a city of masks,
my ink stranded
at the crossroads
of odd or even.

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I write how I am unable to write.

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