Tune of the Earworm

Ink stains on my fingers,

Disheveled hair, Scrunched eyes,

Crushing fatigue.

And then I look at you and calm sweeps over.

Ah! giving birth is never easy;

even when bringing a thought to life.

All the similar pains of biological birth,

In a mere mind space.

Sometimes only the twiddling thumbs create,

With a blank black screen slowly filling up with words.

Ah, the growling creation inside,

that prods and pokes insistently;

till its released into written words,

and moving imagery in thousands!


It tugs at me,

a demanding lover,

demanding that I step up.

And if I don't, a curious delirium follows.

Turning now into a smudged looking glass.

It's akin to a earworm,

but instead of hypnotically endearing melody,

it is the bitingly enchanting imagery,

of ideas and distorted words,

that can only resolve through these hands.


I'm, but a slave,

to my ever wandering mind;

Today, it feels like its conceived again;

And nudges me to heed

While I dance deliriously to the tune of the earworm.


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