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I pick up a quill to pen my thoughts,
The ink bottle shatters,
All I see is the dark blots on the white paper,
I stare at the paper-it seems familiar,
For very often-I am the paper….

My thoughts are jumbled-spread haphazardly on the white sheet of my mind,
There are blotches-I try to clear them.
Its useless to ponder on spilled ink,
Its pointless to wander into haywire thoughts

I pick out a new plain sheet and continue,
Wishing my mind would turn the page a start anew