The Irony of “Writer’s Block”

I told them I can’t write poetry
Neither for sheer fun nor for flattery

They say, “all you have to do is string some words along
Silly, just like you write a song!”

I pick up a pen
My chest tightens
Feeling too conscious
Suddenly my presence brightens

What can I write about?
Do I be gentle with my words?
Or do I shout?

Hours of asking the same questions
Hours of staring at a blank page
Hands now shaking
Mind in a cage
Heavy breathing
Slowly turning into rage
I bloody can’t write a single word
That dream of becoming a writer
Now sounds absurd

There is so much I
Want to say
Have to say
Need to say
So much going on inside my mind
But as soon as I am about to pen it down
Hand is numb, mind is blind

How do I tell ’em that

For me
Words aren’t mere words
Some inspire, some destroy
Some make me laugh
And cry out of joy
Some go into oblivion
But some cast a beautiful spell

Words aren’t mere words
They’re like tiny bits of shooting stars
Some have the ability to heal
Some have the power to scar.



I took to reading long before I started writing. After a very long rant about why I write, here’s to why I read.

Although reading children’ magazines since I was little(encouraged by my mother), I never really felt the force of books around me until I was eleven. I started reading Enid Blyton and was in awe every time I read about the adventures of the children in it (roughly my age back then). I instantly wanted to be a part of those adventures. Since it was not possible in real life, I read more of those. Very soon I switched from Enid Blyton to Harry Potter and there is no stopping me ever since.

I started reading like, how to put it delicately, like a maniac. I read all the time. I read in between my classes at school, in the break time (I had an advantage since I had two breaks per day), sometimes between my meals and I read past my bedtime.

It made me a believer. My best friends and I used to discuss books till we were exhausted. Getting books as birthday presents became pretty much obvious.

Now life is a little more complicated than it was in school, but I read nonetheless. My closest friends are still the ones back from school time, and they understand my obsessive reading disorder very well.

Reading is an experience beyond words and I am having a very difficult time in trying to describe it right now. One has to experience it to understand it’s joys.
I believe reading brings out the best in me. Every single moment I have read, it has been totally worth it. It makes me see some people differently, and then it also helps me to shut out from people I do not want to see at all.

I can enter, exit any world, any time. I can be anything. I can be the characters in the book or a mere spectator to the happenings in it.

Books, they liberate me. I don’t need to follow social norms. I just have to read. All they require are my thoughts and emotions. Sometimes there are numerous conversations that I cannot have with people, but I can definitely have them with books.
There are no pretenses. It’s bare.

Sometimes when I’m reading I try to finish the story the way I want it, giving the characters the closure they do/ don’t deserve.

Whenever I’m feeling low, books always save the day. When I am angry, I read.
I am able to channel all my negative thoughts and transform them into positive ones while reading. It makes me realize that I am not alone. Sometimes it also makes me see that being alone isn’t that bad either. Obviously you have to face all the hardships in your life yourself, but reading always make it easier.

Sometimes while I’m reading, I wish that I pass into some kind of sheer oblivion, where there are just books and no one else, and then never come out.

Lastly, for the utter joy, pleasure and excitement of it, I read.