My first visit to writers' club.

With empty box of ‘Grey Cells’
I walked into the room
Amidst the group of writers
That loaded words in their boots.

With meekly introduction
Expecting an applause
With clichés and metaphors
I waited to fill the box.

It started with a poem
Followed by the prose
And then there was story
Essay and a report,

Soon the words came crawling
All over in the room
The ‘puns’ climbed the walls
The ‘similes’ on the roof

Arrows of ‘no’ ‘buts’ and ‘ifs’
Missiles of ‘must’ ‘could’ ‘should’
In the symphony of emotions
The words began their jazz.

I looked from right to left
Grabbing the dancing words
Stuffed them one by one
Into the box of ‘Grey Cells’

Silently I left the room
My booty beneath by arms
Reaching to a secured place
Planted them in my farm.

© Pushpa Moorjani