The Time I Forgot To Carry My Diary: A Poem

Forgot the diary
But didn’t forget my mind.
I’m busy writing four novels
But still, I found time

To chalk out a poem
On a paper napkin,
Wobbly at best,
Carrying the charm

Of the place I adore with all my heart.
The name is printed, no need to tell.
I’m busy writing just another poem
That will be lost

In the wilderness of
What is quickly turning out
To be getting past, way past
A thousand in number.

Ain’t I glad —
As glad as one can be
To write on the go?
I love the madness, I love it all!