Santosh, in her humourous poem, tells us how words handle a writer.
“They misuse us, abuse us
Malappropriate us,” said words of
Confabulating in a word-conference
“And then callously ignore us,” said
Jabberwocky with a forlorn air.
“We will go on strike, why connive at
this deal unfair?”
Up went the chorus, “down, down,
down with the writer.”
But, among them sat a hoary fighter.
“I am a corollary damage of this word-war.
The writer forgot me hundreds of years back
But, I still yearn to make a comeback.”
Said Lethophobia, trying to shake
away the centuries’ old dust.
“I will try to be rejuvenated, and remove this millennial rust”.
“Merely puppets on a string,
who can merely croak, not sing.”
“We will commit Hara-kiri”, the tired
words said in one voice.
In this word -war, being left with
So the words,
Bold and cold
some new, some old
defiantly did fold their power and punch
and slipped into a black hole
The writer felt the crunch
and sat nursing the writers’ block.
But on his head, like a solid,
relentlessly tried to knock
the word Awesome, awesomely.
“I did not go on strike,” he said
“Am I not awesome?” he said winking
“Ah, you are indeed awesome,” said
The writer now had a deluge of
Awesome indeed had the strength of
And the writer was thus saved from
the writers’ block.
Pix from Net