The Curious Case of the Reader and the Writer

Most days, 

I am a pingpong ball 

Between two mortal parts of me.

Holden Caulfield calls out my name,

From the book that I just kept aside,

To write

About a thought that was just born

Right around the sharp corner

Inside the labyrinth of my mind.

He was never a catcher​, I suppose

For I hop onto my train of thought

To travel miles away to mystic lands

Before he can lure me in, again.

Unlike today,

Most days,

The writer in me remains dormant,



Partly because Mr. Darcy seems more intriguing​

Than ranting about a writer’s block.

It’s far too much effort to negate a weakness

By romanticizing it, you see.


Most days,

The immortal reader in me

Wins the tug of war against the mortal writer,

Who is tuned in

To the frequency of Denial 101:

A channel of self criticism.


Most days,

These two act more like Zeus and Posiedon,

Than enemies at war.

So, when I curl up in the warm folds of reading,

It tells me to go live my life,

And write my heart out.

And when I make myself comfortable

On a coffee date with writing,

It tells me to follow my heart,

And write again.


Unlike most days,


Scout finally let Atticus Finch go to the courthouse,

And with that,

The reader rested in peace for a while,

As the writer

Surrendered to the poet

Who stealthily

Completed this poem.

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