I will write my poem.

Here, on a beat-up, hand-me-down laptop, with a busted Ethernet port, I will write my poem.

Here, at home, on my crumpled bean bag, I can write my poem.

Here, in the coffee shop, fueled with black coffee, mint leaves and the strong essence of caffeine, I will write my poem.

Here, at her flat, just before sunrise, when the birds chirp and garbage trucks convert the city into creativity, at her flat, I could easily write my poem.

Here, on a train from Kanyakumari to Kashmir, in the First class cabin, where the tone signaling the next station is the same pitch as the first note of The Ship Song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, I am going to write my poem.

Here, point to my right temple, in here, is where I really write my poem.

Here, in the Airport Lounge, to the din of luggage wheels, an espresso machine, two travelers and the tantrums of a 4 year old, I will write my poem.

Here, in a cramped bus seat, amid chips and chocolates, thrice-completed Grateful dead playlist, and wrinkled novels, I am trying to write my poem.

Here, at home, despite writer’s block, and by the grace of Loki, Odin, Thor, Leonard Cohen and the Great God Pan, I shall pen down my poem.

Here, in the backpackers hostel at the outskirts of bali, amidst the Russians, british and the rest of the world, i love to write my poem

Here, in the crumbling chair at my office, even though no one else in the whole fucking wasteland cares about this art, I will file my poem.

Here, at a the place of like-minds, less use of WiFi and cheerful faces even though I have to go meet my girl friend, I will finish this poem instead of driving down.

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