When I was in school, Poetry would seem like words no one understands. I mean, how can you understand something that is written from the depth of one’s heart at a place where everyone is trying just to score better than the rest.
Mumbling, Jumbling, Crumbling Till You Make Something Of Yourself!
For me, Poetry is like an expression of one’s feelings,
Like pearls pieced together to form a beautiful necklace.
Each pearl representing a thought,
A feeling, part of life, or just one unexpressed moment.
Yes, You make the beautiful piece, gift her and hope,
It’s something, forever she will keep…
Then Forever seems like a long time,
And then pearls seem to lose shine,
Till they are lost in the sea of time.
Saving your time, Let’s go to what the world says,
The shortest definition of a poem that I have heard is,
It’s like “a painting in words,”
It’s true of a second,
But then would you call an abstract of words on canvas, Poetry?
First Poem
I remember, writing my first poetry,
New School, New Teachers, And New people,
And The English Teacher asks to write something,
About your previous school, I never gave that place a second thought,
And Yet at the end of poetry, I was not ready to place a full stop.
Is this the magic of a poet holds, like creating the finest silk,
Out of thin air, for the lady love that needs a kiss, before she goes,
No, I didn’t write a love poem, neither there was someone,
I left behind as I crossed the gates of that old hall,
Yet an expression broke free and was conveyed to the teacher,
She complimented me and talked about how she could understand,
what that place meant to me, which I never understood…
Is Poetry a Lie?
Let’s Explore:
Here is what I think, Yes it is a lie and to that matter a beautiful one. We as poets, just crave a part of life in a way that seems to have meaning.
It doesn’t matter, what the reality was,
A Poetry would always turn the circumstances,
Into the circumference that is the measure,
Of the length between the reality and what it could have been.
It is the kiss that a drop of rain gives to this dried land,
It is the passion that flow down the mountains, like a stream,
Taking, breaking, shaking everyone that seems to stand in its way.
I can recall the time words made her crave, made her stay,
made her leave and never look back, power of words,
trembling earth and giving shockwaves.
