Writing a novel is quite an arduous task,
Been thinking of writing one since those teenage years.
Growing up in solitude among the company of books,
I always wanted to be an author.
But life coerced me to chart other paths.
I chased dreams of others,
Tried to make them happy while I strangled my own soul, with each passing year.
Now I am not getting any younger, just balder.
Is this the end of my dream?
Yes, is the instant reply from all my brain.
But hope is a wonderful thing, it keeps us alive,
And it keeps alive our dreams too.
A tiny little voice, barely audible, whispered to me-
"What if we write one page a day? Let's give it a try for just 30 days"
I struggle to scribble these lines after many years.
There are yet no characters; there are yet no plots,
Just a will to write and zeal to dream a lot!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tried to make them happy while I strangled my own soul, with each passing year. Now I am not getting any younger, just balder. There are yet no characters; there are yet no plots, Just a will to write and zeal to dream a lot! A real picturization of the creative lethargy suffered by real creative people, nicely penned. 10++ for the poem shared.