When letters wait
to pounce on a blank page
when thoughts crowd the mind
like frothing **** in a pond
I keep wondering
what poetry is to me
what poetry is to many

Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy
and flying on magic carpets
to lands forlorn

Sometimes it is
a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from
the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation
from assaults of pain
a sedative
to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary
for a burdened heart
a window
to look at the world through
a companion
when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame
in a darkening world
a cloth line
to hang the ***** laundry
a water lily blooming
in the pool of tears
a shelter
in homelessness

sometimes it is a ladder
to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings
with tidings of hope
peace in a world
braced for war

Poetry, if you are all these
let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art
may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!

our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies
on a starless night!

i was your mirror
you stood there and pondered
you laughed, i laughed
you smiled, i smiled
you cried, i cried
but when you hurt me, you shattered me and broke me in half

the mirror was our trust
shining and filled with lust
but now it is shattered into pieces
gone forever...
even when i tried to piece us back together you can still see the broken creases

mr. cloud,
can i ask you a question?
if i do,
where are you now?
i miss you
i need you
i want you
i want the old you,
the old us.

wait, what?
did i just said "us"?
what is "Us"
that's not even ever exist i think.
there was only me and you, no us

mr. cloud
have you wonder why i call you 'mr,cloud'?

because,
you are like a cloud
cooling for a while, then you make the thunderstorm, you create a rain, after that,
you'll disappear.