A budding confused poet.
Why would the poet in me always glorify my deeds?
Should a prose relate only to nature and it's treats?
Are the words I know suffice,
Will they be able to mesmerise?
I find no more reasons not to fall apart,
Yet I'm done penning the pain in my heart.
Does a creative mind exhaust?
Or was it my imaginations' ghost?
From finding beauty when grey and cold,
To staying gloomy when the sun shines gold.
Alliteration, metaphors, rhymes and similes
On top of that so many hearts to please.
The tress on her hair, the gleam on his mane,
The squeal of an infant and the silence of the old.
All typical characters are here too in mine.
Such rubbles and boulders of life are my footholds.
How can I please or how can I delight?
Through my views get noticed and stay out of sight.
Between thoughts and whispers this mind constantly hovers
Of stars that align and elements and their powers.
Feels like spinning yarns to fiber,
Or sometimes like churning milk to butter.
In finding the right words there is harmony,
In reading a poem there is a melody!