Poetry comes out of countless things
Out of apprehension. Out of monotony
Out of walking in circles on a straight road
Because you need to do something
But there is nothing to do.

Poetry comes out of the frantic mind
That can only be settled
By the daunting maze of language
Which when properly arranged together
Could level the intelligence of humans.

Poetry comes out of that fleeting glance
From the eyes of the man you love
Who has never loved you
That leaves you wondering,  dreaming and hoping
And always crushed & crumbled in the end.

Poetry comes out of loneliness
In the presence of your dear friends
When even the closest of faces
Seem nothing more than an apparition
Come haunting from a vintage photograph.

Poetry comes out of the pitter patter of rain drops
Carried through an open evening window
On a breeze that brings with it
The memories impossible to evade
And the frigidness of an impending winter.

Poetry comes out of banal things.
Out of broken hearts and despondent loves,
Out of full ashtrays and empty bottles,
Out of murky and thunderous nights,
When the rain bombards the rooftops.

Poetry comes out of affection and out of abomination
Out of rapture as much as melancholy
Out of enigma by dark and awe by day
But above all, poetry comes out of life,
And thus, the poet must be left to his own with death.