Sometimes I don’t think myself
As a poet, but a scribbler,
Because behind every single piece of
My work, there are hundreds scrawled pages
Glasses of red wine left untouched and candles
I have lit again and again, fighting with
The Lord of darkness, because you have to write
That verse again and again, until you’re satisfied,
Until you’re proud to call yourself its creator,
But poetry isn't just penning thoughts running
In your veins, oozing as soft whispers from your lips,
It resides underneath like a constant heartbeat and
It does not stop until you get that one poem,
Until you pen down the feeling you were trying
Feverishly to put into words and when you
Finally do, the beat stops just for a moment
Enough for you to give that glint of pride,
And then the beat starts again with your fingers,
Yearning once more, to create another masterpiece,
Because poetry is not a phase, not a mere hobby,
Not a way of passing time, but it is a norm, a habit
A tradition that you follow so religiously because
You believe in it, for you can actually feel the poem
When it sits with you in a room.