• dhivya_diyal 102w

    The coffee unprepared

    I smelled the aroma of the roasted beans,
    It filled the zephyr,
    Milk was taken out from the refrigerator,
    Sugar was kept ready,
    Yet, the coffee was unprepared.

    I have kept my dreams high,
    I heaved a sigh,
    I wish to be a writer,
    I thought of stories,
    The characters couldn't speak,
    The story was unwritten.

    I woke up from a nightmare,
    It was a long sleep,
    The dreams kept repeating,
    Asking me to go for it,
    To pursue dreams,
    That was never achieved.

    I, with trembling hands,
    Prepared a coffee,
    That was unprepared.
    The sweetness of success,
    I adored;
    The bitterness of failures,
    I abhorred;

    I wrote a story,
    My characters screamed,
    To end the story,
    They wanted a quick success,
    I told them not to worry.

    The coffee spilt from the cup,
    Helpless like a writer,
    Feeling hot in the cold winter,
    I cried that I never tried,
    But, I have got the stamina.

    I wrote stories of pain,
    Filled with pleasure.
    I lifted the cup,
    With courage.

    I sent a manuscript,
    To the publishers.
    Several rejections,
    Coffee was filled,
    Not with aroma,
    But with broken pieces of the cup.

    I tried and cried,
    With satisfaction,
    That I wrote a story,
    That was never written,
    I prepared a coffee,
    That was never prepared.

    One day,
    I'll prepare a perfect coffee,
    I'll write a story,
    That was never told,
    I'll never give up,
    Until I create history.