How fast her fingers move on
From work out tips to
Cannes festival link
Her heart and mind afloat in the
Jolly, juvenile winds,
She opens her wings and flies into the jet streams,
Soaring for the highest peak of her heart
Always dreaming, imagining her future fantasy,
Hoping reality wouldn't crush her
Before she even starts struggling.

It isn't just a flame
Burning within me
(cannot extinguish with your loving words)
It isn't only the rotten smell of overcooked thoughts
(I'd still love to eat their bitterness away)
Although it is...

It is me and my love for thee,
You who makes me a poet,
Who makes me feel enough to feel human
Whether it's sadness, happiness, hatred or jealousy
(oh that silly stinging heart of mine)  

No... It's a contagious forest fire
Combusting my sanity towards those
Near you; Lived and living or loving
(how readily my tears want to burn them)

It's known it's not healthy
But you don't see it's my love anyway
Even when I am angry with you
(nothing that you're responsible for)
And mime my thoughts out to you
So you never understand.

By the time this forest obliterates,
It's all just too late to tell you,
And again,
The ash is buried inside,
Waiting to reignite,
Soon.

Ask yourself, how are you feeling?
Sad, mad, happy, glad?
Maybe stuck in a hurricane of gloom, Where angry grey skies loom
High up above your head,
Even when they aren't near,
Your heart is filled with fear.

How are you feeling?
Write it all out
Maybe compare it with a simile or a metaphor so the reader feels it too,
You need these devices only for beautification,
So the reader connects with you.

One more tip,
I will make it quick
It is only for the comfort of lips,
That we make it all rhyme,
But it's not necessary,
Since at times we try rhyming it, and it doesn't make sense,
Like celebrating marriage (death) anniversary.

It is all up to you, what you have to write,
It doesn't have to be a structure,
There are no rules, no regulations,
Only you and your heart,
So let the ink flow to its natural tendency
And what will be will be.

So my dear writer, I hope I helped,
I hope you see it clear and bright,
It's your turn to tell me
How are feeling? Is everything alright?
Just write and write and write.

It's not as if I am the sun
Without which the day is just as dark
I am not the needle which ****** your emotions
Without which you're just as empty
I am not your heart
Even though you say I am
I am not that thin brittle air you breathe
Maybe you don't know -yet- but I do clearly,
You wouldn't even notice
When I'm nowhere to be seen
You wouldn't even notice
That I have ever been,
You wouldn't even notice.

A lot many times,
Constantly,
Innumerably,
Perpetually,
I am too handicapped to write
A sentence
Or
Two... words, one word, three words, four words...
Like a poet. I am too unconfident or inconfident or disconfident or... Is it unconfident? No, yes, no. Yes.
I am too broke, mentally, exhausted reserve of words, letters and alphabets that I am not native to, but are mine since I was born and my real language is lost amongst the chaos of my broken English. I can't be a good writer like this.
I can't be a poet, I am a person merely aware of a few things in life and can't express it clearly so I think vague poetry helps, even though I write it I can't interpret someone else's poems.
I am not qualified to be a poet. I haven't written 200 sonnets or a 1000 poems on various themes of life, not qualified to write poems on all stages of Human Development. I have only written a 100 poems... Actually, 150. But you can think it's 100.
I am not a poet. I am not old, I am not famous. I am not dead. Why should I be called a poet?
I am just a person who is expressing oneself, I shouldn't get so haughty and give myself a designation. Yet.
Let me grow old and decay in time, so when the earth swallows me up, provided people know me then by luck or chance, I might become a poet. I might.
I am not a poet.
But then, who IS poet?