I read a lot of poems today,
on love, hate and everything in between.
From poets of different eras
or by those who had nothing much to say.
But as I read more and more
I had a feeling to write one too,
So I picked up my pen,
and decided to pour my bottled up feelings.
But what was I going to write about?
My head was blank as I thought,
'Nothing but everything' then proclaimed my inner stout.
But the words didn't come easy, I reckon.
Eyes fixated,
my grip as firm as before.
my head exploding with too many voices.
But I had my answer,
to why they write in rhyme,
or believe even a prose can be a song,
because every time I read poetry,
I saw art.
It sure broke my walls,
but it hung forever, onto my heart.