I get to a point, Each and every year, Where I stare at the blank page, Hoping poems will become clear. *** All the dates, Numbered to twenty five, A scary list of nothingness, Yet to provide even a single line. *** What is good, What will you like, Was it worth writing, These are always my frights. *** For now I sit, Quiet and alone, Planning the poems, To be released one at a time.
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