Some writings he wrote, were randomly written,

Tales with no beginnings and tales that refused to end,

Some characters he created, to be soon forgotten,

Broken snippets of their lives, that he tried to mend…


A writer went back, to his writings old,

Seeking new beginnings, new ideas, for new tales to be told,

He had a writer’s block, or so he felt,

Nostalgia was high, in his past he dwelt…

He needed a new start, both for his writings and his life,

Yet, he searched for the same in his past, such was his strife….


His search never ends, just like his tales,

Every once in a while he tries, every once in a while he fails,

The fool doesn’t realize that his search itself is futile,

He lives in the past, he must return to the present from his exile,

For it’s the present that was always there and the present that will always be,

His source of tales, his life, his thoughts, his words that are waiting to be set free….