Poetry Collection by Prabhat Verma
My poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song which either arises from a bleeding wound, or from a smiling face.


As I fight to pen something down the words just won't flow!
This is amazing and frustrating at the same time
That when you try and put conscience efforts into something,
Ironically enough,
The results are sometimes not satisfactory, even far from it.
Then we have this other thing called persistence
Which might as well pay off in certain situations like these.
The last thing you want to do at these times
Is start cursing your pen.
Writing something on paper is one thing
And actually implementing it in real life is a completely different one altogether.
And although I know
I probably shouldn't be doing this,
Yet I can't help
But do the last thing that ought to be done
At this instant in time (cursing my pen). And I talk about tall orders!
I think I got my basics wrong here
And am trying to fix the apex without building up a proper base
Which again is a personal mistake.
And worse still is the fact
That I actually know about the blunders that I am making
Or am just about to make and still,
I keep on making it,
Just like I would,
Had I not known.
Then suddenly like a flash in the middle of black,
I run through the paper again
And what do I see?
I see that I have jotted down a few lines?
Now how could I manage to do this
When I had nothing to write to begin with?
Another thing beyond explanation.
A miracle?
I don't think so.
Now there is another explanation.
It goes like “the words were always there.
Just that you had it seen it.
You had not written it.
But nevertheless,
It was all there.”
This is one theory for the brain-dead.
I can sell my brain,
But I refuse to buy this theory.
You think I am sold out?


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