Tag Archive: The Writer

He tried to write a tale too long…
Lost track in between.. wrote it all wrong!

In a cafe at night, he attempted to complete this tale,
His words he misspelt, his chain of thoughts would fail !
He attempted to write.. a perfect beginning.. and a perfect end,
Neither was possible, broken segments of the story, he had to mend !
That’s the trouble he faced, as a writer always…
Good stories needed high drama, twisted ways…
A single track written, never went well..
Writer’s block creped in…It was every writer’s hell!
Adding new twists changed the plot,
He never reached the end, he had always sought…
He tried to add an impromptu track every time
Even though it meddled with his story, changed the flow of his rhyme !
Old characters he created were forgotten in lieu of characters new
Who were the protagonists now of his story? He himself never knew..
And thus the writer who sought a perfect end
Tried writing a reality, which he could never mend
For every fix he tried, another end seemed a mess
His tale was going nowhere, that was his best guess !


With words he played – my writer friend,
Started incomplete tales with no end !
Closure he sought everytime,
Got distracted though in-between the rhyme !
And so moved on… his random strife…
To write down a story – a complete life !
Though characters new, he created always – couldn’t control their fate !
An end to his writer’s block, is what the characters still await…

He pondered what to write…

He pondered what to write…
In the middle of the night
A clumsy writer he was
Living a writer’s block – he preferred calling it a pause

Every now and then, he tried to break the same,
Write something new, he tried..but wrote usual rhymes lame
That night too… like all the rest…
He was thoughtless, wordless, still tried rhyming at his best !

Fool…realised too well that he missed that spark now,
Faced an emptiness within, sought something new somehow,
Yet acknowledging the same, meant defeat, and defeated he wont be
Remain caught in random old rhymes, to sense new thoughts…new ideas.. he was never free…


He wanted to rhyme but had no clue…
The writer, my friend, had words none…thoughts random incoherent few…
Lost in confusion, he tried his best to express
His intentions… his actions.. but with his words he always further failed to impress…

Confusion was the flavour of the season…
Random thoughts in a crowded mind, for no apparent reason…
Like a crowded Mumbai local, all on-board – set for the journey, but fatally at discomfort,
Such were the writer’s thoughts, in his words they reflected, the rhymes that he finally wrote.

The last song of the night

A writer immersed in writing…trying to write a song,

The song that would summarize his life – all good days and days that went wrong.

The song, that would also be an ode, to numerous nights like this one,

When the writer tried to write, random rhymes filled with pun.


Mocking oneself at writing, and life in general that was,

And losing oneself in one’s own thoughts – moments of bliss-filled pause.

The last song, a writer writes, his last attempt to be good,

His finest attempt to be creative, rhyming on, perhaps…as best as he could.


The last song of the night,

A writer’s attempt to set things right,

In fiction perhaps, write a reality new,

And sing it thereafter, in synchronous words few,

Set a new rhythm, to groove on,

Singing ahead till dawn,

That’s how this song went by,

A twisted tune, to the beats of which… time will fly,

In faded time, memories too will fade,

To a tattered past, a goodbye the writer will bade,

His is an attempt to set things right…

As the writer writes.. the last song of the night.

Of moments only few…

Past midnight, a writer starts to write again,
Another night of random musings.. written in vain..
For as soon as he writes them, he will destroy them too,
His words would have a life – of moments only few !

One would write random stuff, perhaps written before,
Or some words new, from thoughts he would explore..
With his writings, he will try to trigger new thoughts, a different cue…
But this trigger will have a life – of moments only few !

A twist in tale, the writer will add,
Happy beginnings, endings sad…
Every moment, new turns, to mark semi-plots new,
Overall however.. this tale will have a life – of only moments few !

He tried to write..
But couldn’t that night,
For his thoughts now betrayed him as well,
And thus a writer struggled all night… to find a tale to tell.

He thought of snippets… and his thoughts were flawed,
On a barren plain, for words, his mind now ploughed,
But despite deep thinking, no plot ringed a bell,
And thus a writer struggled all night… to find a tale to tell…

He is a fool – he realized, his chosen profession was wrong,
For here he was struggling, to write a tale, complete a song,
With words he played once, but now there was a twist in the game,
He was being played by words, lost all his fame,
This was a last attempt to set things right
A random tale to be written, on the last night,
With a writer’s block, he was going through hell,
Thus, a writer struggled all night.. to find a tale to tell….

Random Writings

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….

The writer too grim !

He tried to write a tale too long,
Lost track in-between, wrote it all wrong…

He had new beginnings, he faced the same end,
A broken tale with nothing to mend.

Of many twists and turns, a tale he wrote,
As always in the end, a happy ending he sought

But that end never showed up for him,
A writer he was of tales too grim.

His words never failed to match a rhyme,
Yet it seemed he failed from time to time…
A destroyer he was in the tales he wrote,
But in reality, resurrection he sought.

To start all over again somehow,
Re-write a past from then to now,
But then ofcourse the writer knew very well,
His destiny is already written, all he has are random tales to tell.

And so he writes broken tales of doom,
Every midnight some ramblings till dawn will loom,
Few he shares with the world he knows,
The rest he keeps away from everyone- friends and foes.

The hidden tales are now his burden, his pride,
For he sees no purpose to retain them, yet these tales he will always hide
Confusion looms in his world these days,
Life’s Like That, he always says.

And so the writer too grim, as we know him now,
Builds up a new tale – when, where, what , how …
This tale too will end like the rest,
Yet a happy ending he still seeks, and he will try his best….

Seated in the library, a writer tried to write,
Trying to define his existence, with a struggling attempt to set things right,

He tried to rectify the errors of his past,
Though he was short of time, in the few moments that will last!

He tried to write a tale too long,
Lost track in-between, wrote it all wrong…

He had new beginnings, he faced the same end,
A broken tale with nothing to mend

Fragments many, of a life gone by,
Turned to fiction, truth woven in a thread called lie

Of a wanderer at heart, that he always was,
Wandering on random ways, left with no purpose!

With memories left to be forgotten someday,
As he walked on, on his broken way.

Many twists and turns were still stored in fate,
It seemed to him he was life’s favourite bait!

Back to the question, of what to write,
The writer pondered a lot, but nothing seemed right!

His words were empty, a tale with no track,
The end was an irony, a meaningful conclusion it lacked!

He wrote of days long gone…
Of memories many, remembered by none…
Of friends he met, and foes he made,
Tattered glimpses of a past, that will soon fade !

Of long talks…over matters non-trivial…
Of excuses to meet for workings unreal..
Of a rose not given…of a sentence unsaid…
Of a call unconnected…of a letter unread…
And so the tale, went on and on,
Of random moments turning to memories to be retold later in some song!

Of love, or what he believed love was,
A random verse, to explain his loss,
Of random twists in tale, to set things wrong,
Indeed, his tale was turning too long !

He faced highs, he faced lows,
A murky life full of emotional blows
To give him support was his favourite quote,
Life’s Like That… he always wrote !!