White canvas laughed at me,
mocked my imagination
and insulted my colors.
I looked at it for hours,
just to get sucked in its limitless depth.
Silence inside the room was an introvert.
Didn’t want me to meet all those
pitter-pattering raindrops who hugged
and slid on the window glass
and I stood by my old friend,
just to go deaf by its inaudible melodies.
Blank page and a full pen,
any writer’s worst nightmare.
Half filled cups and some coffee rings on the table,
like footprints of a lost wanderer,
told a tragic story of hollow emotions,
and a strangled past.
I am running round and round on the same path,
I am writing over and over again on the same page.
After setting free few characters I longed to be,
I am trapped inside those Coffee Rings.