On what to write...

I wondered why I never wrote
Why the pens dragged along
The blocks seemed mountains
And the lexicon always failed

Perhaps a sequel to a comic
But Archie is in a septuagenarian
Phantom is long buried
Tintin has already been canned

Perhaps a soap
But sex and incest will only thrive
Only mundane can conquer
And couch potatoes have to swallow

Perhaps a family saga
But ‘Roots’ have rotted
‘Glass palace’ has cracks
And there is no ‘ god for large things’

Perhaps an autobiography
But I never experimented with truth
Never was close to a Mein Kampf
And never had a tryst with destiny

Perhaps that is why
I need to see and breathe
Wait for the wistful sorrow
And an unfulfilled dream