In the misty mornings, I day dream
under the warm of my worn-out quilt
about a book that I wanted to write
or about some half-baked plots or
some half-written poems. I slack.
From a corner of my window,
which remains covered with my bed-sheet
all day and night, a ray of light escapes
and dimly lights up my room,
I dream again about the many things which I wanted to do,
about the many men I wanted to be
and the many men which I have become. I slack.
My bed remains messed up always,
just like my head. I slack.
The desktop, which stands testimony
to the innumerable days which I wasted,
looks bogged down by the burden of guilt
which otherwise should have been mine. I slack.
P.S. This lines are an extension of the poem written by my friend goirick. Please do Click here to read his one. Thanks