When Words Become Stranger

I can’t seem to write, nowadaysI have become a stranger to wordsOr perhaps, I am a stranger unto myselfI love to rhyme. I tell stories.I have played with words.Standing in my balcony,Behind this glass windowWatching the early morning skyIt is a beautiful day, yetEverything feels so distant to meSigh!I blow my hot breath against the glassPainting hearts on the foggy windowWhat do you write?, they ask.Some seemingly sensible reasons, of course.Mm, stuff like that, I said dismissively.Still blowing on the misty window paneStaring at the vanishing heartsCarelessly watching overThe boys playing cricketHah, the ball hits the stumpAnd there goes a wicket.Focused as they appear,Sure footed players,Knowing what to do.While I stand aloof with uncertaintyStuck with my unsaid words.When thinking becomes philosophy,This distraction feels strangely familiarLeaving the vapors of my hot musingsI walk away with abstract thoughtsPreparing myself to museAbout being unable to write.Of how I become a stranger.