The Unwritten Poem

For inspiration,
I try to negate myself
In stars and birds outside,
For some lines of poetry.

The dusty window-glass,
And the metropolitan mist,
Blur my vision of the outer
And I lose the creative urge.

I wait, mystified, yet insistent,
Until I hear a chilling thud inside,
And see the first stream of blood
In my toddler’s delicate lips.

Then I feel the first surge of poetry.

Before the poem takes form,
The house sneaks into my room:
With high arrears, low grades,
Lacks, losses, lambasts, …

Then a call from parents:
Grandma has gone into oblivion,
Grandpa has resumed his coughs,
The farm waits to be ploughed and planted.

I still look out for inspiration,
Through the dust and the mist,
While the house echoes with calls and demands,
And drags and buries me in its insatiable orifice.

But I continue to feel the unwritten poems.