Stuck

Incessant thoughts finding a way to escape, 
The sword is the pen, stuck in mean time through a red tape. 
Too direct, too sharp, at times too rusty 
The deep wound it has the repute of, often too nasty. 


Stuck in cottage with shackles of knowledge,
Temporary bliss but still a man on a ledge 
Nowhere to run without a fight 
The 'sword' is last refuge that seems at sight. 

Sharpened long ago, at times of distant dream
The grip not so tight, neither the speed supreme 
But a fight to survive the sole weapon in the armor 
A passion to fight, the war cry I murmur. 

A strategy at hand is the need of the hour, 
In this battle of might which lacks firepower. 
The thoughts in agony but the words not floweth 
Sunk in his own thoughts the battle wary poet.