Struggle of Writer

 In the heart of Nature, where colours dance, 

 A pen dreams, giving words a chance. 

 In a small room with a humble pen, 

 They start a trip, wondering when. 

 

 The struggle begins with an empty page, 

 Like a new chapter in a story's stage. 

 In the vill or bustling town, 

 The pen wears a hopeful frown. 

 

 With each daylight, a new tale unfolds, 

 As the pen's pen in silence moulds. 

 In simple words, the struggle is real, 

 Like a planter tending his hopeful field. 

 

 under the mango tree's cool shade, 

 The pen battles words like a sportful raid. 

 Ideas flutter like butterflies around, 

 Yet, in the struggle, a story is found. 

 

 The pen hesitates, the essay may spot, 

 In the crowded request, ideas are sought. 

 With chai in hand, and dreams in mind, 

 The pen quests for words to bind. 

 

 In the simplicity of everyday life, 

 In the midst of joy and occasional strife, 

 The struggle takes a pen's form, 

 A desire to produce, to rainfall the storm. 

 

 Amidst the sounds of the busy street, 

 In the gentle thunderstorm's metrical beat, 

 The pen sits, lost in study, 

 In the oil of words, a world is sought. 

 

 Stories may falter, like a gharry's wheel, 

 Yet, the pen persists with unwavering zeal. 

 Through the shade of life's eclipse and flow, 

 In the struggle, the seeds of stories grow. 

 

 In the vill forecourt or megacity square, 

 The pen seeks tales in the open air. 

 Words may escape like beach through fingers, 

 Yet, the struggle lingers, the alleviation lingers. 

 

 Through the bustling emporium, where stories breed, 

 In the simplicity of a planter's need, 

 The pen finds meaning in the mundane, 

 In the struggle, an air, a chorus. 

 

 With every daylight, the stopgap is renewed, 

 In the quiet moments, studies construed. 

 The pen balls on the oil of white, 

 In the struggle, emerges a story so bright. 

 

 Amidst the hills, where the gutters wind, 

 The pen's struggle intertwines. 

 The paper crinkles, the essay may wane, 

 Yet, the trip continues, free from disdain. 

 

 Through the request's hustle, the train's hum, 

 In the simple meter, a pen's drum. 

 The struggle echoes in each line, 

 A story shaped by hands that bind. 

 

 In the simplicity of the Indian view, 

 In dreams that every pen pursues, 

 The struggle is a silent call, 

 To produce a tale that enthrals. 

 

 So, in the vast breadth of words, 

 In the chittering of distant birds, 

 Let the struggle be a pen's companion, 

 In the simplicity, let dreams abide.