bhaskar saikia

There are moments—quiet moments—when the heart overflows, but the pen falters. The emotions are there, fierce and full, humming beneath the surface like a secret tide. But somehow, the words don’t come.

I’ve often sat with this feeling. A pen in hand, a page before me, and a world of emotion behind my ribs. And yet—silence. Not the good kind that soothes, but the kind that frustrates. The kind that feels like a locked door when all you want is to speak.

It’s easy to call this writer’s block, but it feels deeper than that. It’s not the lack of ideas—it’s the abundance of feeling. It’s not an empty mind, but a heart too full. The trouble isn’t in not having something to say. The trouble is saying it right—without shrinking it, simplifying it, or turning it into something less true than how it lives inside you.

I’ve come to call it the “imperfect poet” feeling. That sense of falling short—not because the soul lacks depth, but because language sometimes feels like a blunt instrument in the hands of someone trying to carve something delicate.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it too. To keep trying. To keep writing, even when the words stumble. To honor emotion, even when expression feels incomplete. Poetry isn’t always about perfection. Sometimes it’s about presence—about showing up at the page with all your mess, your softness, your ache.

If you’ve ever felt this way—take heart. You’re not alone. Some of the most powerful truths live in the spaces between words. Some poems are written with ink; others are felt in the silence that follows.

Let’s embrace our imperfections. After all, perhaps it is in our honest, faltering attempts to say what we feel that poetry finds its truest form.