First, there was an urge to write poetry to appraise beauty.
It was followed by an urge to write to showcase thought.
Then, it became a duty, a side-hustle as it fed me.
The writers block ensued where I had nothing to write.
I thought it ended like every flower that once bloomed.
Now, I feel the tide rising again, covering the shells.
There is so much to write about, so many ideas.
The time isn’t right, and it’s gone if you postpone.
Where is the balance that we forever craved?
For we are still swinging, like a fruit off a branch.
Maybe we will attain that balance only when we drop.