Expressing one’s words was never difficult till it was supposed to be expressed in the form of a work of art—poetry. Expressions of emotions, frequently tied to Romanticism, be it towards the Creator, nation, nature, or beloved ones. These emotions have created warriors and rebels; heroes and villains; the wise and mad; writers and illiterates; calm and anger... and even more.  

What’s it actually? Is it this powerful? Why do these emotions make and destroy the strugglers of this lifeless, dull life? We’ll never know the deep truths—but one thing’s clear: anyone can talk, murmur, muse, or brood the art of poetry. But fear kills

[...mind blank, paper blank.]

Maybe it is like a rainy day, thunder and lightning all over the realms visible to our eyes. In hearts of hearts, we’re thrilled by the haunted, scary beauty of it. We murmur, "Nature is beautiful yet dreadful!"

Same with us—the would-be poets. We love these emotions but fear putting them into verse, scared of judgment. We ****** our inner poet. [Beep-beep. The Poet is dead.]

But the brave ones? They write anyway, ignoring the silent and haunted voices of the world. We call them Poets. These emotions are called Love be it—for land, for people, for God.  

That’s poetry’s power. It’s shaped history—wars, revolutions, hearts. Before calling it “mere timewaste writing,” remember: even the worst book teaches something.  

That’s why we call this art—  
                                                POETRY.
Haunted days,
Haunted nights,
Same fight
...yet we still write.

In the haunted art
We find our light

Once again, 'tis Fall—
The time when
Leaves of the magnificent trees fall,
Hearts of the poets fall,
Liveliness of all the beings stills,
Tears from the sky fall,
And silences from the World fall.

Once again—
    'tis Fall.

When we came to know
what we wanted not
that would be a moment
of truth-  wisdom we'd have got!

'tis Raining
Everything drenched and lonely—
            Anxious, heavy yet lovely.
I wander—
Is the sky weeping?
Or letting go– sorrows?

When I gaze upon the clouds,
Those majestic and wandering titans,
I ache—
Are they truly water, condensed?
Or the world's sorrows, condensed?

Rain—
Is it the window to our actual soul, or—
    Or, glass to our facade soul?

Am I real,
Are you real,
Are we real,
Is it real,

Can I feel?
Do you feel?
Can we feel?
Does it feel?

Is the sky really sunny?
Is the water really running?
Is the wind really whistling?
Is the sun really blistering?

Are we products
Of a conduct
That relinquishers
Are fond of,

Are we subjects
To a subject
Where the solution
Is reject,

Are we fools
To a tool
That doesn’t know
It’s being used,

Are we falling
For a faux
That’s already been
Exposed,

And do we really know

What’s real?

If you've been dealt a bad hand
Perhaps the game you play's
Unsuited
Peruse God's grand casino
Find a chair that fits
Get rooted.