Musings of A Poet
I an impressionist or an expressionist I do not know
I write for myself... I write not for show
And yet, I wish to reach out… to be heard
Wishing my writings never to get blurred
But to linger on behind…
My life, my existence, I pour on pages
My thoughts, my sufferings, my failings, my rages
Laid out unguarded and bare
Unthinking for an unknown glare…
To lay seeds on a fertile mind
Someday my words spoken in a whisper
Into a blushing and expecting ear
Would conjure emotions same
Light the beginning of a loving flame...
Maybe of the never ending kind
The canvas may look haphazard
And the colours in the words unheard
I carve and wrap in my tales
The little secrets that life entails
For someone to discover and find
Is there truth in my words; are they real?
Or are my writings ephemeral and surreal ?
Indifferent today ... I run no race
For the worthy leave a trace
And the world is never too blind
...Priceless words get etched in time…
Of them then one name be mine...