a tinge of yesterday’s vague sparkle,
refrains my soul from any artistic indulgance
dreary routine tempts my thoughts to rupture,
frustration mounts when i can no longer weave words
in hopes of my poetic glands to awaken,
i endure the sound of my own screams
ignoring the despicable taste of roadside tea,
i drown in my inability to write
i travel to abstract locations with drowsiness,
to think of a title if not the content
i return home with despair,
and fall in bed to welcome another troubled sleep
as i make way for blurred dreams to enchant me,
i frantically die a little inside
the gift of my loneliness is nowhere to be seen,
i raise a toast to each moment, which says ‘poetry denied’
november winter 
In mourning loss of inspiration and creativity, you’ve created a wonderful piece of poetry, Hamid. So very like Coleridge. I keep telling you you’re a Romantic poet. You share so many traits with them. Read up on Keats’ idea of negative capability, you have that too.
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