When inspiration kicks you in the face,
And your affluent vocabulary simply refuses to flow
When your eyes are devoid of any emotion,
And your soul wanders aimlessly like a miserable minstrel.
When your migraine pulses like a predator hidden in the plains,
And your glasses insist on crossing the bridge called nose
When your neck is as stiff as stone from sitting still and typing away,
And your hands crave for the feel of writing with a pen once more.
When your well-oiled train of thoughts gain in rust,
And your face can’t stop twitching in hyperactive rebellion
When you feel a flu bug struggling to defeat your immunity to sickness,
And your heart is numb from muscles kept still too long.
When every single fibre of sound agitates your subconscious,
And the clock ticks, awaiting your friend’s impending arrival
This is what you do.