A Writer's Block.

The swaying trees,
Rejoicing the monsoon,
And the falling water on my forehead.
Everything that is meant to be wonderful and poetic.
Everything a desperate romantic would hope for.
It was perfect, at-least it used to be.
But today, it made no sense
It didn't move me to write.
It didn't move me to tears.
The ripples today,
And the glowing fireflies, in hiding
Seemed more technical than magical.
And the miracle seems to have lifted.
Why so ? why this vision ? Devoid.
Something has changed.
Something has gone missing, for too long.
Could it be the happiness.
And the Love, divine.
For all write about love.
For all write about how wonderful it is.
No.
When I fall in love, I'm too busy.
Too busy, loving.
It sure is the anti, a heartbreak.
It sure is the misery, the pain,
The lack of a lover,
It makes me pick up my pen.
The hurt from a loved one,
Compels me to howl, on paper.
Till I feel it.
Till I have it in me.
And today its been long.
Since I fell in love, to break my heart.
Since I felt like a poet.
Since I wrote poetry.