Writing is sometimes such an odious task ,
Not because of lack of creative ideas ;
They are swimming in the tantalising depths of the mind ,
Surfacing but not yet ready to metamorphose onto paper -
The more you think of giving them a ground life -
Without a pencil ready to bait ,
The lesser chances of completing a work written without rhyme or reason.
Now , I had wanted to compose an essay ,or a poem , or close to either,
With a title : " The labours of writing evanescent thoughts "
The pencil refused to form lines as required ,
So I let it scribble -
Lest I remain useless in a 'must write spur' ,
and sit agitatedly with a blank paper.
I must admit : I made that title up just now !
No plan of writing of such labours had occured to me ,
It formed shape as soon as I allowed my fingers to move...
See , that's how unpredictable scribbling can be !
Writing - while feeling 'how silly' of whatever written -
Its start is a much needed ignition ;
The middle , a slothful dripping of fuel ;
The end , a baffling ride with a memorable line.
I don't know about you ,
But I like coming to the End -
Good or Bad and all the adjectives in between -
I have presented it 'neatly' : Don't you agree ?