Let's paint this canvas with just one brush..
We'll paint into the night and be outrageous and in no rush..

Being a poet
is both a pain and a privilege.

All you do is
bleed your emotions
on a thousand pages
while people sing your praises
for ages.

Our most clear and beautiful image
Is situated in our heart and imaginations..
So I say-
Be that, you are in your imaginations
You will be unique

I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.

When is a poem not a poem and just a ramble of spoken words?
This one here is just a thought
that I wanted to be heard.

Who am I?
But a collection of sounds in colors?
Of tastes in scents?
Of misery in delight?

I am nothing but the shadow
of good times
and there
lost files.