The cons of prose, defy my intentions,

Yet I stand trying hard beneath..

The cure to my curiosity, not just the prevention.

To write a word on an empty sheet..

I need an inspiration at least..

In search of inspiration,

to free my craving heart..

Wailing through the crowd

in a pandemonium of thoughts,

I glance through the pages of an unknown species..

A species long lost in the valleys of darkness..

To write a line on an empty sheet..

I need some consolation at least..

Characters are there but are rather unclear..

Some are just a figment of imaginations severe..

Many available but only for a mere, minute..

Some are just the reincarnation of me..

To write a paragraph on an empty sheet..

I need a clearer thinking,

which I am having the least..

Stammering thoughts of an occupied mind,

Shimmering replicas of ideas denied...

Bulging with dreams of who not to be..

I still end up seeing myself amidst..

others who are just like me.

To write a story on an empty sheet..

I need my glasses and a bunch of humans..

My epiphany...

In the crowd of many, its still hard to find any...