Psst..

You are the insipid in beginnings,
the hiding in my muse,
the twirling, thinking index finger,
the cliches I abuse.

You are the simple lyric,
that challenges my rhyme,
the soaring, surging raaga,
four beats at a time.

You are braille in a reign of black,
the reluctance in refuse,
the security of darkness,
the intent I confuse.

You are the personal disbelief
in your own silly excuse,
the little devil worshipped
deep, deep, in a ruse.

You are stage that stands waiting,
the audience I can't amuse,
the silence that listens patiently,
the love-poem gone obtuse.