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When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly

When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity

Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme

Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm

You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically

You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously

The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic  

Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

Accuracy of your acrostic arrows,
Ride the wind with utmost ease.
Claiming each bulleye with poetic precision,
Hands steady, unswayed by the errant breeze.
Endowed with talent, unsurpassed finesse,
R**egarded by peers as the wise-worded wiz.

I used to draw gardens, but oceans seem to fit better lately.
I approached a staircase and climbed up the first step, then the second, but when I went to climb up the third I felt a foot to the front of my head and the floor to the back.
I feel like my chest is a rotting apple, one that fell from a tall tree and was ravaged by the birds.
I feel like a man lost in the woods for over a year and finally managed to light a small fire, but you are the wind that has blown it out.
I've fallen down a well with the walls smoothed out, I've been locked in a closet with no light switch.
I feel like my chest is filled with water, and as the time runs dry, my insides are submerged.
there is a thin layer of darkness surrounding my ribcage, clouding up my feelings and seeping down my spine like an untouched smoke, the vapor killing my lungs and my quiet lips screaming for peace.
the wires connecting my heart to my head are thin and frail and the plastic has been cut off and the metal is exposed and the last electrical pulse telling me that everything will be alright has been sent, leaving my heart a hopeless, useless object.
and when I face him, even with my heart in my hands and his words in my mind and your ruling under my feet, with my breathing slighted, with my voice sputtering and all the salty ocean water kissing my cheeks and the volcanoes already erupted, I fear it will not be enough, I fear being deserted.
I watch my handwriting scribble and fail as I write this, I can see my hand shaking through the ink.

I become afraid
of the sun -- I just wanted
love -- she burned me twice.