I stand alone, in front of my desk,
In my class alone -
"What should I write next?"
I ponder, in a silent tone
as I seek for an idea to jest -
Words come out in a chaotic order,
My will gives them balance.
They seem to bring me to a sunder
as if, they came as ordnance.
So I remain clueless
of what I should place down;
"Maybe a game of chess,
to settle my frown?"
I shift my view into the distance,
And there I see it, a construct
of concrete, in an instance
I gain ideas to instruct
my arms, into writing a verse,
One of my clueless self
and how I rehearse;
Another one, to put in the shelf.
