Poetry is, feelings coming alive with words
Inked with permanence, on paper
Words wrapped in unique ideas and creativity
Every piece is open to as many interpretations
Leaving the mind, wanting more
Prolific poetry flowing from every poet’s pen
Keeping the souls of other poets, replenished
Poetic liberty gives us poets, to venture beyond
Weaving a web of magic with each word
Poets drinks from the well of creativity
Every century has given a rich legacy of poets
Poetry is in nature, for we poets can feel
It’s omnipresent in every incident of life
Sometimes sad, or philosophical, or satire
Funny and full of Love, or even hatred
Poetry can dig the depths of feelings
To create mellifluous literature
We are all bound by the threads of poetry

When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

Barren lands lie within ,
Heart parched dry ,
Rain over me O Goddess divine

If smoking kills , then you be the nicotine !

Your eyes harbour storms reckless,
mist clad darkness soothingly descends.
Silence is the language speaketh two souls.