When letters wait
to pounce on a blank page
when thoughts crowd the mind
like frothing **** in a pond
I keep wondering
what poetry is to me
what poetry is to many

Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy
and flying on magic carpets
to lands forlorn

Sometimes it is
a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from
the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation
from assaults of pain
a sedative
to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary
for a burdened heart
a window
to look at the world through
a companion
when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame
in a darkening world
a cloth line
to hang the ***** laundry
a water lily blooming
in the pool of tears
a shelter
in homelessness

sometimes it is a ladder
to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings
with tidings of hope
peace in a world
braced for war

Poetry, if you are all these
let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art
may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!

our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies
on a starless night!

I am not going to fall even if things crumble
I'll make my way up and tower them all
I will not stumble, crawl or roll
I'm gonna show you, I'm the queen of this hall

I know you like the back of my hand
And I'll track you until you're out of my mind
I'll show you I can handle and drive my life
Without you squeezing my neck with a knife

I'll give you a big and loud slow clap
For trying to ruin me with your crap
But no, no, no you little wittle, you fell on my trap
And right now it's not me but you on my grasp

How does it feel?
To question yourself when would you heal?
To feel like you're forever living in fear
To think that you're better off in a coffin