Don't ask the writers
what pain or which beauty they saw That made them write so.
Do not ask the reason of their sadness
or even of fleeting moments of  glee
And happiness.

For they hide in the flowers
the agony of their tears
and
in the raging Fire
they keep safe their calming smiles.


They can feel a million things
and make you feel same .
And still be seated in a room
all closed and blinding in.

They can tell you the story
of your depression
while
they walk  through forests alone.

So do not ask why and when
they wrote what they did ,
for they wrote it cause their mind
is multiple people, all at the same time.

Hiding in poetry
shelves and shelves
of feelings and thoughts.

All complicated enough
to  not be deciphered right
all simply stated only to
knowing of mine.

That is why I like ,
complicated prose and twisted things
they have a way
to convey so much
still holding onto the mystery of it.

I , like them ,
pour my hearts wording out.
Out to  you and  everyone
all around and each day .

But with a veil of chaos
in all -
A order is formed amidst that
To be understood
only by heart of mine
To be heard
a melody , only for ears of mine.

Yet it fails not ,
to soothe your ears too.
Given to you too ,
a melody of your own.


This is why I love poetry
and music and  the art.
Each having to mean
a different  world - a million things
to each being and every person.

I am relieved
and happy to know
to let my secrets out -
be weighed off the burden of it
-of my secrets and my sufferings -
yet be sure to have them out
in the world of words and songs
all of them - safe and sound.