To live is to be a poet,
For ink is not the symbol of a writer.
It is the heart, which crafts itself
into the perfect brush,
To paint down the hues mixed by the mind,
Merged trying to find meaning,
then laid upon the canvas of life, yearning improvement,
By the soul, the painter.
To love is to be a poet,
For a poet is not defined by her wealth,
Not by what she is, what she does,
But by what she feels.
Love, hatred, sympathy, empathy,
A poet is nothing without a heart,
And the heart itself is the pen of life.
She does not need a page if that’s what she lacks,
Not even eyes for even the dark has a way across,
Not even ears for even silence, has a sound you sense,
And not even speech for even the silent have thoughts.
As poetry is a resilient art,
a tapestry of patterns and practice,
Weaved out by the blessing of humanity.
to reminisce is to be a poet,
For being a poet is to express,
Being a poet requires passion,
Passion and blood,
Blood that runs deep down your body, rich in life,
Be the blood warm, like happiness shining down on a sunlit day,
Be the blood cold, like ivory snow that numbs your hands.
To live is to be a poet,
For a heart, a mind and a soul remain a poet's weapons,
And humanity is a vibrant canvas brimmed with unvoiced tints,
For feeling is itself a page bejeweled with ink.
- Suryanshi Sinha
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 9:46 AM UTC