On my desk to write a poem my pen is about to move.
Pondering over life and its obstacles I try to get into the groove.
I stare blankly (trying to be artistic) at the magical night sky
Like a paralysed ostrich, my creative genius miserably fails to fly.
As I doodle over my failed attempts at writing the very first line,
Being a novice I succumb to emotions which make my will to write further decline.
Infinite ways: there seem to be in which these words and these phrases could seamlessly blend.
But with my limited vocabulary and lack of persistence
It appears I have reached a dead end.
And now the hope of penning a great melancholy seems nowhere in sight.
My failed attempt at poetry is all that I could write.
(Shubhankar Sharma is an Economics and Statistics student at University of Toronto. Apart from his academic pursuits he finds joy in music and conversations that leave you thinking.)