This is not a Poem

Void as vaccum,
dead as desert...
empty is my brain;
blank as the paper at hand.
Where are all my words?
ran away like frightened deers?
Where are all my thought?
flown away like scared crows?
What do i write now?
What do i write?
People are reading my crap
and call it a good poem!!
Wonder if they are true or
mere lies for this old friend.
Thanks for the real ones
and for the polite lies.
its these pats, genuine or sham,
that keeps me writing.
But, what do i write now?
as if reached the poetic dead end,
searching words in the the dark...
well, do i write on love?
there are the film songs many
singing the untrue praises.
do i write about my damsel?
but, now i have only memories to be alas forgotten.
Do i write on life?
but, I havent lived a real one.
Do i write on Friendship?
but, none has given me the true fun.
Do i write on my Mom?
but, i havent been a worthy son.
neither moon nor the sun,
neither dawn nor the dusk,
neither peace nor the war,
neither smile nor the tears,
neither snow nor the fire,
none of them really inspire.
Hey!! why dont i write this?
A poem on my inability to write a poem!
So friends, have a second thought
before you call mine a poem or
me a poet.
Well, this itself is not a poem........